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diff --git a/old/66362-0.txt b/old/66362-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b843856..0000000 --- a/old/66362-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2008 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Gloucestershire Friends: Poems From a -German Prison Camp, by F. W. Harvey - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Gloucestershire Friends: Poems From a German Prison Camp - -Author: F. W. Harvey - -Contributor: Rev. Bishop Frodsham - -Release Date: September 22, 2021 [eBook #66362] - -Language: English - -Produced by: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by - University of California libraries) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLOUCESTERSHIRE FRIENDS: -POEMS FROM A GERMAN PRISON CAMP *** - - - - - -Gloucestershire Friends - -[Illustration] - - - - -BY THE SAME AUTHOR - -_Fourth Impression_ - -A Gloucestershire Lad at Home and Abroad - -Cloth 2_s._ net; paper 1_s._ 6_d._ net. - - - “The secret of Mr. Harvey’s power is that he says what other English - lads in Flanders want to say and cannot.... This modest little - volume has real charm, and not a little depth of thought and beauty. - It contains far more real poetry than many a volume ten times its - length.”--Bishop Frodsham in _The Saturday Review_. - - “A poet of power and a subtle distinction.... This little collection - of his poems, which has a Preface by his Commanding Officer, will - give him a high place in the Sidneian company of soldier-poets.”--E. - B. O. in _The Morning Post_. - - -London: Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd. - - - - - Gloucestershire Friends: - - Poems from a German Prison Camp - - by - F. W. Harvey - - Author of - “A Gloucestershire Lad at Home and Abroad” - - [Illustration] - - Introduction by the Right Rev. BISHOP FRODSHAM - Canon Residentiary of Gloucester - - - London: Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd. - 3 Adam Street, Adelphi, W.C.2. 1917 - - - - - _First published in 1917_ - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - - TO - THE BEST OF ALL - GLOUCESTERSHIRE FRIENDS - MY MOTHER - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - INTRODUCTION, BY BISHOP FRODSHAM 11 - - CLOUD MESSENGERS 13 - - LONELINESS 14 - - AUTUMN IN PRISON 15 - - WHAT WE THINK OF 16 - - PRISONERS 17 - - SONNET, TO ONE KILLED IN ACTION 18 - - THE HATEFUL ROAD 19 - - ENGLISH FLOWERS IN A FOREIGN GARDEN 20 - - THE BOND 21 - - TO YOU--UNSUNG 22 - - A CHRISTMAS WISH 23 - - TO KATHLEEN 24 - - CHRISTMAS IN PRISON 25 - - TO THE OLD YEAR 26 - - BALLADE 27 - - BALLADE 29 - - SOLITARY CONFINEMENT 31 - - A RONDEL OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE 32 - - THE LITTLE ROAD 33 - - SONNET 34 - - ENGLAND, IN MEMORY 35 - - THE DEAD 36 - - THE SLEEPERS 37 - - COMRADES O’ MINE 38 - - TO R. E. K. 39 - - BALLAD OF ARMY PAY 40 - - TO THE DEVIL ON HIS APPALLING DECADENCE 43 - - AT AFTERNOON TEA 44 - - TO THE UNKNOWN NURSE 45 - - THE HORSES 46 - - MOTHER AND SON 47 - - GROWN UPS: - - 1. TIMMY TAYLOR AND THE RATS 48 - - 2. WILLUM ACCOUNTS FOR THE PRICE OF - LAMPREY 50 - - 3. THE OLDEST INHABITANT HEARS FAR - OFF THE DRUMS OF DEATH 51 - - 4. SETH BEMOANS THE OLDEST INHABITANT 52 - - 5. A RIVER, A PIG, AND BRAINS 53 - - 6. MARTHA BAZIN ON MARRIAGE 54 - - CHILDREN: - - 1. LITTLE ABEL GOES TO CHURCH 55 - - 2. DELIGHTS 56 - - 3. THE BOY WITH LITTLE BARE TOES 57 - - THE WIND IN TOWN TREES 58 - - FORM--A STUDY 59 - - VILLANELLE 60 - - KOSSOVO DAY 61 - - A PHILOSOPHY 62 - - CONSOLATOR AFFLICTORUM 63 - - RECOGNITION 64 - - ON OVER BRIDGE AT EVENING 65 - - PASSION 66 - - A COMMON PETITION 67 - - AN ADVENTURE WITH GOD 68 - - THE STRANGER 69 - - THE BUGLER 71 - - - - -INTRODUCTION - -by Bishop Frodsham - - -“Good wine needs no bush.” Those who know and love “A Gloucestershire -Lad” would resent any lengthy attempt to praise the quality of -Lieutenant Harvey’s verses. Some of the poems from a German prison -camp may reach a far higher standard of lyric excellence than any in -the earlier volume. The two ballades on war and “The Bugler” grip one -by the throat. But all the verses have a sweetness and beauty entirely -their own. - -The poems are all short--too short. Lieutenant Harvey sings like the -wild birds of his own dear Gloucestershire because he cannot help doing -so. He stops short--as they do--and like them begins again. What can -we do but take what he gives us, wondering that he can write so well, -mewed as he is in a cage--and such a cage! An agony of inarticulate -longing shrills in a feathered cageling’s song: the man simply and -unaffectedly lays bare his heart, his love, his faith, his hope, his -sense of loneliness, of ineffectiveness, of baffled purposes and -incompleted manhood. - -Memory is at once the joy and torment of all who are forced to think. -Memory tears the heart-strings of those who are in captivity. It -makes some hopeless and weak, others bitter and savage, according to -their natures. Beneath all the music of this man’s words there is an -undertone of fierce anger that sweeps him away at times, but is this -not characteristic of many other young Englishmen who laugh so well, -and “woo bright danger for a thrilling kiss”? His memories sweep along -the great gamut of his own tremendous experiences, and yet they never -lose the melodies of home. Perhaps because of the objects of his -heart’s desire he is so kindly withal, so modest, so humorous, and, to -use his own words of another, “so worldly foolish, so divinely wise.” -Herein is the fascination of these verses. - -The manuscript was sent on by the prison authorities of Crefeld without -any obliteration or excision. This must be counted unto them for -literary righteousness. Yet it would be difficult to imagine what the -most stony-hearted German censor could resent in any one of Lieutenant -Harvey’s poems, unless it might be a deep love for England and an -overwhelming desire to be with his love again. - -Many unfortunates who have had dear ones imprisoned at Gütersloh, where -most of these poems were written, and at other centres, are looking -forward eagerly to the publication of this little book. If they expect -to read descriptions of the life of the camp, or reflections upon the -conduct of German gaolers, they will be disappointed. The circumstances -of the case have made such revelations impossible. If they had been -possible, it is still doubtful if they would have been made here. But -it will be strange if such readers do not find better things than they -expected. Transpose any other county of this land for Gloucestershire, -or any other home for the tree-encircled house at Minsterworth, -then they will learn what the best of England’s captive sons are -thinking, and so take heart of grace from the true love-songs of a -Gloucestershire soldier, written first and foremost for his mother. - - - - -GLOUCESTERSHIRE FRIENDS - - - - -CLOUD MESSENGERS - - - You clouds that with the wind your warden - Flying toward the Channel go, - Or ever the frost your fruit shall harden - To hail and sleet and driving snow, - Go seek one sunny old sweet garden-- - An English garden that I know. - - Therein perchance my Mother, straying - Among her dahlias, shall see - Your rainy gems in sunlight swaying - On flower of gold and emerald tree. - Then in her heart feel suddenly - Old love and laughter, like sunshine playing - Through tears of memory. - - - - -LONELINESS - - - Oh where’s the use to write? - What can I tell you, dear? - Just that I want you so - Who are not near. - Just that I miss the lamp whose blessèd light - Was God’s own moon to shine upon my night, - And newly mourn each new day’s lost delight: - Just--oh, it will not ease my pain-- - That I am lonely - Until I see you once again, - You--you only. - - - - -AUTUMN IN PRISON - - - Here where no tree changes, - Here in a prison of pine, - I think how Autumn ranges - The country that is mine. - - There--rust upon the chill breeze-- - The woodland leaf now whirls; - There sway the yellowing birches - Like dainty dancing girls. - - Oh, how the leaves are dancing - With Death at Lassington! - And Death is now enhancing - Beauty I walked upon. - - The roads with leaves are littered, - Yellow, brown, and red. - The homes where robins twittered - Lie ruin; but instead - - Gaunt arms of stretching giants - Stand in the azure air, - Cutting the sky in pattern - So common, yet so fair. - - The heart is kindled by it, - And lifted as with wine, - In Lassington and Highnam-- - The woodlands that were mine. - - - - -WHAT WE THINK OF - - - Walking round our cages like the lions at the Zoo, - We think of things that we have done, and things we mean to do: - Of girls we left behind us, of letters that are due, - Of boating on the river beneath a sky of blue, - Of hills we climbed together--not always for the view. - - Walking round our cages like the lions at the Zoo, - We see the phantom faces of you, and you, and you, - Faces of those we loved or loathed--oh every one we knew! - And deeds we wrought in carelessness for happiness or rue, - And dreams we broke in folly, and seek to build anew,-- - Walking round our cages like the lions at the Zoo. - - - - -PRISONERS - - - Comrades of risk and rigour long ago - Who have done battle under honour’s name, - Hoped (living or shot down) some meed of fame, - And wooed bright Danger for a thrilling kiss,-- - Laugh, oh laugh well, that we have come to this! - - Laugh, oh laugh loud, all ye who long ago - Adventure found in gallant company! - Safe in Stagnation, laugh, laugh bitterly, - While on this filthiest backwater of Time’s flow - Drift we and rot, till something set us free! - - Laugh like old men with senses atrophied, - Heeding no Present, to the Future dead, - Nodding quite foolish by the warm fireside - And seeing no flame, but only in the red - And flickering embers, pictures of the past:-- - Life like a cinder fading black at last. - - - - -SONNET - -(TO ONE KILLED IN ACTION) - - - My undevout yet ardent sacrifice - Did God refuse, knowing how carelessly - And with what curious sensuality - The coloured flames did flicker and arise. - Half boy, half decadent, always my eyes - Sparkle to danger: Oh it was joy to me - To sit with Death gambling desperately - The borrowed Coin of Life. But you, more wise, - Went forth for nothing but to do God’s will: - Went gravely out--well knowing what you did - And hating it--with feet that did not falter - To place your gift upon the highest altar. - Therefore to you this last and finest thrill - Is given--even Death itself, to me forbid. - - - - -THE HATEFUL ROAD - - - Oh pleasant things there be - Without this prison yard: - Fields green, and many a tree - With shadow on the sward, - And drifting clouds that pass - Sailing above the grass. - - All lovely things that be - Beyond this strong abode - Send comfort back to me; - Yea, everything I see - Except the hateful road; - The road that runs so free - With many a dip and rise, - That waves and beckons me - And mocks and calls at me - And will not let me be - Even when I close my eyes. - - - - -ENGLISH FLOWERS IN A FOREIGN GARDEN - - - Snapdragon, sunflower, sweet-pea, - Flowers which fill the heart of me - With so sweet and bitter fancy: - Glowing rose and pensive pansy, - You that pierce me with a blade - Beat from molten memory, - With what art, how tenderly, - You heal the wounds that you have made! - - Thrushes, finches, birds that beat - Magical and thrilling sweet - Little far-off fairy gongs: - Blackbird with your mellow songs, - Valiant robin, thieving sparrows, - Though you wound me as with arrows, - Still with you among these flowers - Surely I find my sweetest hours. - - - - -THE BOND - - - Once, I remember, when we were at home - I had come into church, and waited late, - Ere lastly kneeling to communicate - Alone: and thinking that you would not come. - - Then, with closed eyes (having received the Host) - I prayed for your dear self, and turned to rise; - When lo! beside me like a blessed ghost-- - Nay, a grave sunbeam--_you_! Scarcely my eyes - Could credit it, so softly had you come - Beside me as I thought I walked alone. - - Thus long ago; but now, when fate bereaves - Life of old joys, how often as I’m kneeling - To take the Blessed Sacrifice that weaves - Life’s tangled threads, so broken to man’s seeing, - Into one whole; I have the sudden feeling - That you are by, and look to see a face - Made in fair flesh beside me, and all my being - Thrills with the old sweet wonder and faint fear - As in that sabbath hour--how long ago!-- - When you had crept so lightly to your place. - Then, then, _I know_ - (My heart can always tell) that you are near. - - - - -TO YOU--UNSUNG - -(SONNET) - - - How should I sing you?--you who dwell unseen - Within the darkest chamber of my heart. - What picturesque and inward-turning art - Could shadow forth the image of my queen, - Sweet, world aloof, ineffably serene - Like holy dawn, yet so entirely part - Of what am I, as well a man might start - To paint his breathing, or his red blood’s sheen. - - Nay, seek yourself, who are their truest breath, - In these my songs made for delight of men. - Oh, where they fail, ’tis I that am in blame, - But, where the words loom larger than my pen, - Be sure they ring glad echoes of your name, - And Love that triumphs over Life and Death. - - - - -A CHRISTMAS WISH - - - I cannot give you happiness: - For wishes long have ceased to bring - The Fortune which to page and king - They brought in those good centuries, - When with a quaint and starry wand - Witches turned poor men’s thoughts to gold - And Cinderella’s carriage rolled - Through moonlight into Fairyland. - - I may but _wish_ you happiness: - Not Pleasure’s dusty fruit to find, - But wines of Mirth and Friendship kind, - And Love, to make with you a home. - But may Our Lord whose Son has come - Now heed the wish and make it true, - Even as elves were wont to do - When wishing could bring happiness. - - - - -TO KATHLEEN, AT CHRISTMAS - -(AN ACROSTIC) - - - K ings of the East did bring their gold - A nd jewels unto the cattle fold. - T he angel’s song was heard by men - “H oly! holy! holy!” then. - L ittle and weak in the manger He lay - E ven as you in a cradle to-day; - E ven as you did the Christ-child rest - N estling warm in His mother’s breast. - - GÜTERSLOH, - _December 1916._ - - - - -CHRISTMAS IN PRISON - - - Outside, white snow - And freezing mire. - The heart of the house - Is a blazing fire! - - Even so whatever hags do ride - His outward fortune, withinside - The heart of a man burns Christmastide! - - - - -TO THE OLD YEAR - - - Old year, farewell! - Much have you given which was ill to bear: - Much have taken which was dear, so dear: - Much have you spoken which was ill to hear; - Echoes of speech first uttered deep in hell. - - Pass now like some grey harlot to the tomb! - Yet die in child-birth, and from out your womb - Leap the young year unsullied! He perchance - Shall bring to man his lost inheritance. - - - - -BALLADE - -No. 1 - - - Bodies of comrade soldiers gleaming white - Within the mill-pool where you float and dive - And lounge around part-clothed or naked quite; - Beautiful shining forms of men alive, - O living lutes stringed with the senses five - For Love’s sweet fingers; seeing Fate afar, - My very soul with Death for you must strive; - Because of you I loathe the name of War. - - But O you piteous corpses yellow-black, - Rotting unburied in the sunbeam’s light, - With teeth laid bare by yellow lips curled back - Most hideously; whose tortured souls took flight - Leaving your limbs, all mangled by the fight, - In attitudes of horror fouler far - Than dreams which haunt a devil’s brain at night; - Because of you I loathe the name of War. - - Mothers and maids who loved you, and the wives - Bereft of your sweet presences; yea, all - Who knew you beautiful; and those small lives - Made of that knowledge; O, and you who call - For life (but vainly now) from that dark hall - Where wait the Unborn, and the loves which are - In future generations to befall; - Because of you I loathe the name of War. - - - L’ENVOI - - Prince Jesu, hanging stark upon a tree - Crucified as the malefactors are - That man and man henceforth should brothers be; - Because of you I loathe the name of War. - - - - -BALLADE - -No. 2 - - - You dawns, whose loveliness I have not missed, - Making so delicate background for the larches - Melting the hills to softest amethyst; - O beauty never absent from our marches; - Passion of heaven shot golden through the arches - Of woods, or filtered softly from a star, - Nature’s wild love that never cloys or parches; - Because of you I love the name of War. - - I have seen dawn and sunset, night and morning, - I have tramped tired and dusty to a tune - Of singing voices tired as I, but scorning - To yield up gaiety to sweltering June. - O comrades marching under blazing noon - Who told me tales in taverns near and far, - And sang and slept with me beneath the moon; - Because of you I love the name of War. - - But you most dear companions Life and Death, - Whose friendship I had never valued well - Until that Battle blew with fiery breath - Over the earth his message terrible; - Crying aloud the things Peace could not tell, - Calling up ancient custom to the bar - Of God, to plead its cause with Heaven and Hell ... - Because of you I love the name of War. - - - L’ENVOI - - Prince Jesu, who did speak the amazing word - Loud, trumpet-clear, flame-flashing like a star - Which falls: “Not peace I bring you, but the sword!” - Because of you I love the name of War. - - - - -SOLITARY CONFINEMENT - - - No mortal comes to visit me to-day, - Only the gay and early-rising Sun - Who strolled in nonchalantly, just to say, - “Good morrow, and despair not, foolish one!” - But like the tune which comforted King Saul - Sounds in my brain that sunny madrigal. - - Anon the playful Wind arises, swells - Into vague music, and departing, leaves - A sense of blue bare heights and tinkling bells, - Audible silences which sound achieves - Through music, mountain streams, and hinted heather, - And drowsy flocks drifting in golden weather. - - Lastly, as to my bed I turn for rest. - Comes Lady Moon herself on silver feet - To sit with one white arm across my breast, - Talking of elves and haunts where they do meet. - No mortal comes to see me, yet I say - “Oh, I have had fine visitors to-day!” - - DOUAI, - _August 20th, 1916_. - - - - -A RONDEL OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE - - - Big glory mellowing on the mellowing hills, - And in the little valleys, thatch and dreams, - Wrought by the manifold and vagrant wills - Of sun and ripening rain and wind; so gleams - My country, that great magic cup which spills - Into my mind a thousand thousand streams - Of glory mellowing on the mellowing hills - And in the little valleys, thatch and dreams. - - O you dear heights of blue no ploughman tills, - O valleys where the curling mist upsteams - White over fields of trembling daffodils, - And you old dusty little water-mills, - Through all my life, for joy of you, sweet thrills - Shook me, and in my death at last there beams - Big glory mellowing on the mellowing hills - And in the little valleys, thatch and dreams. - - - - -THE LITTLE ROAD - - - I will not take the great road that goes so proud and high, - Like the march of Roman legions that made it long ago; - But I will choose another way, a little road I know. - There no poor tramp goes limping, nor rich poor men drive by, - Nor ever crowding cattle, or sheep in dusty throng - Before their beating drovers drift cruelly along: - But only birds and free things, and ever in my ear - Sound of the leaves and little tongues of water talking near. - - The great roads march on boldly, with scarce a curve or bend, - From some huge smoky Nothing, to Nothing at their end; - They march like Cæsar’s legions, and none may them withstand, - But whence, or whither going, they do not understand, - But oh, the little twisty road, - The sweet and lover’s-kiss-ty road, - The secret winding misty road, - That leads to Fairyland! - - - - -SONNET - - - Christ God, Who died for us, now turn Thy face! - Behold not what men do, lest once again - Thou should’st be crucified, and die of pain. - Look not, O Lord, but only of Thy grace - Do Thou let fall on this accursed place, - Where the poor starve and labour in disdain - Of blinded Greed and all its vulgar train, - A single thread of heaven that we may trace - Some way to Right! And since “great men” stand by, - Heedless of women and men that hunger, Lord, - Give Thou to common men the vision splendid. - Take (and if need be break) them, like a sword; - Take them, and break them till their lives be ended; - Here are a thousand christs ready to die! - - - - -ENGLAND IN MEMORY - -(SONNET) - - - Sweet Motherland, what have I done for thee, - What suffered, what of lasting beauty made? - I who ungratefully and undismayed - Drank from thy breast the milk which nourished me - In childhood, which until my death must be - The life within my veins. Lo, from that shade - Wherein they rest, thy dead and mine, arrayed - In honour’s robes, come clear and plaintively - Voices for ever to my listening ear - Which cry, “Not yet is finished England’s fight! - Still, still must poets strive and martyrs bleed - To overthrow the enemies of Light, - Armies of Dullness, Cruelty, Lust, and Greed!” - Yet what have I done for thee, England dear? - - - - -THE DEAD - - - You never crept into the night - That lurks for all mankind! - Joyous you lived and loved, and leapt - Into that gaping dark, where stept - Our Fathers all, to find - Old honour--jest of fools, yet still the soul of all delight. - - - - -THE SLEEPERS - - - A battered roof where stars went tripping - With silver feet, - A broken roof whence rain came dripping, - Yet rest was sweet. - - A dug-out where the rats ran squeaking - Under the ground, - And out in front the poor dead reeking! - Yet sleep was sound. - - No longer house or dug-out keeping, - Within a cell - Of brown and bloody earth they’re sleeping; - Oh they sleep well. - - Thrice blessed sleep, the balm of sorrow! - Thrice blessed eyes - Sealed up till on some doomsday morrow - The sun arise! - - - - -COMRADES O’ MINE - -(RONDEAU) - - - Comrades o’ mine, that were to me - More than my grief and gaiety, - More than my laughter or my pain: - Comrades, we shall not walk again - The road whereon we went so free-- - The old way of Humanity. - But you are sleeping peacefully - Till the last dawn, heroic slain, - Comrades o’ mine. - - Till the last moon shall fade and flee - You sleep. Oh sleep not dreamlessly, - You whereof only dreams remain, - Come you by dreams into my brain, - Inspire my visions, and still be - Comrades o’ mine! - - - - -TO _R. E. K._ - -(IN MEMORIAM) - - - Dear, rash, warm-hearted friend, - So careless of the end, - So worldly-foolish, so divinely-wise, - Who, caring not one jot - For place, gave all you’d got - To help your lesser fellow-men to rise. - - Swift-footed, fleeter yet - Of heart. Swift to forget - The petty spite that life or men could show you; - Your last long race is won, - But beyond the sound of gun - You laugh and help men onward--if I know you. - - Oh still you laugh, and walk, - And sing and frankly talk - (To angels) of the matters that amused you - In this bitter-sweet of life, - And we who keep its strife, - Take comfort in the thought how God has used you. - - - - -BALLAD OF ARMY PAY - - - In general, if you want a man to do a dangerous job:-- - Say, swim the Channel, climb St. Paul’s, or break into and rob - The Bank of England, why, you find his wages must be higher - Than if you merely wanted him to light the kitchen fire. - But in the British Army, it’s just the other way, - And the maximum of danger means the minimum of pay. - - You put some men inside a trench, and call them infantrie, - And make them face ten kinds of hell, and face it cheerfully; - And live in holes like rats, with other rats, and lice, and toads, - And in their leisure time, assist the R.E.’s with their loads. - Then, when they’ve done it all, you give ’em each a bob a day! - For the maximum of danger means the minimum of pay. - - We won’t run down the A.S.C., nor yet the R.T.O. - They ration and direct us on the way we’ve got to go. - They’re very useful people, and it’s pretty plain to see - We couldn’t do without ’em, nor yet the A.P.C. - But comparing risks and wages,--I think they all will say - That the maximum of danger means the minimum of pay. - - There are men who make munitions--and seventy bob a week; - They never see a lousy trench nor hear a big shell shriek; - And others _sing_ about the war at high-class music-halls - Getting heaps and heaps of money and encores from the stalls. - They “keep the home fires burning” and bright by night and day, - While the maximum of danger means the minimum of pay. - - I wonder if it’s harder to make big shells at a bench, - Than to face the screaming beggars when they’re crumping up a trench; - I wonder if it’s harder to sing in mellow tones - Of danger, than to face it--say, in a wood like Trone’s; - Is discipline skilled labour, or something children play? - Should the maximum of danger mean the minimum of pay? - - - - -TO THE DEVIL ON HIS APPALLING DECADENCE - - - Satan, old friend and enemy of man; - Lord of the shadows and the sins whereby - We wretches glimpse the sun in Virtue’s sky - Guessing at last the wideness of His plan - Who fashioned kid and tiger, slayer and slain, - The paradox of evil, and the pain - Which threshes joy as with a winnowing fan: - - Satan, of old your custom ’twas at least - To throw an apple to the soul you caught - Robbing your orchard. You, before you wrought - Damnation due and marked it with the beast, - Before its eyes were e’en disposed to dangle - Fruitage delicious. And you would not mangle - Nor maul the body of the dear deceased. - - But you were called familiarly “Old Nick”-- - The Devil, yet a gentleman you know! - Relentless--true, yet courteous to a foe. - Man’s soul your traffic was. You would not kick - His bloody entrails flying in the air. - Oh, “Krieg ist Krieg,” we know, and “C’est la guerre!” - But Satan, don’t you feel a trifle sick? - - - - -AT AFTERNOON TEA - -(TRIOLET) - - - We have taken a trench - Near Combles, I see, - Along with the French. - We have taken a trench. - (_Oh, the bodies, the stench!_) - Won’t you have some more tea? - We have taken a trench - Near Combles, I see. - - - - -TO THE UNKNOWN NURSE - - - Moth-like at night you flit or fly - To where the other patients lie; - I hear, as you brush by my door - The flutter of your wings, no more. - - Shall I now call you in and see - The phantom vanish instantly? - Perhaps some sixteen stone or worse, - Suddenly falling through my verse! - - Nay, be you sour, or be you sweet, - I’d see you not. Life’s wisdom is - To keep one’s dreams. Oh never quiz - The lovely lady in the street! - - I knew a man who went large-eyed - And happy, till he bought pince-nez - And saw things as they were. He died - --A pessimist--the other day. - - - - -THE HORSES - - - My father bred great horses, - Chestnut, grey, and brown. - They grazed about the meadows, - And trampled into town. - - They left the homely meadows - And trampled far away, - The great shining horses, - Chestnut, and brown, and grey. - - Gone are the horses - That my father bred. - And who knows whither?... - Or whether starved or fed?... - Gone are the horses, - And my father’s dead. - - - - -MOTHER AND SON - - - “Bow-wow! Bow-wow!” See how he bounds and prances, - “_Wow!_” races off, returns again and dances-- - A little wave of sunshine and brown fur-- - About his old rheumatic mother-cur. - Look how she gives him back his baby bite - Tenderly as a human mother might. - - Now, poor old thing--she gazes quaintly up - To laugh dog-fashion at me. “What a pup, - Master!” she seems to say: then, like a wave, - He’s down on her again--“Oh, master, see, - I’m growing old.... What spirits youngsters have!” - Her old eyes blink as they look up at me. - - - - -_GROWN UPS_ - - - - -1. TIMMY TAYLOR AND THE RATS - - - It was a spell of sultry weather, - There’d been no rain for weeks together, - And little Timmy Taylor, - A mouse of a man, - Walked down the road - With a big milk-can, - Walked softly down the road at night - When the stars were thick and the moon was bright. - - Hard by the road a spring came up - To glimmer in a rare bright cup - Of green-sward, burnt elsewhere quite dry. - To this he came--we won’t ask why-- - Little Timmy Taylor, - The mouse of a man, - With a big milk-can. - - Then, as he turned, so goes the story-- - Came trooping through the moonlight glory - Hundreds and scores of--what do you think? - Rats! rats a-coming down to drink - From granary and barn and stack, - Grey and tawny, brown and black, - Tails cocked up and teeth all gleaming, - Beady eyes light-filled, and seeming - That moony-mad and hunger-fierce. - Little Timmy Taylor, - The mouse of a man, - Dropped the milk-can, - And giving a shriek--’twas fit to pierce - The ear o’ the dead--he ran away, - And the can was found in the road next day. - - - - -2. WILLUM ACCOUNTS FOR THE PRICE OF LAMPREY - - - “Aye, sure, it’s pretty fish, but there’s no sale - Nowadays.” “Why?” “Well, the story that they tell - Is, as the king were very fond on ’em, - And all the fashion ate and paid up well. - And then one day our king--so goes the tale-- - Ate over-hearty-like and throwed ’em up. - So all the fashion with him when he dined - Cut out their orders,--and the price cum down. - And maybe that be true, for still in town - Our council--scheming, likely, to remind - His Majesty of joys he left behind-- - Sends un the very prince o’ lamprey pies - (I’ve seen un many a while in Fisher’s winder) - And so, God willing and if nothing hinder, - Some day he’ll taste again and prices rise.” - - - - -3. THE OLDEST INHABITANT HEARS FAR OFF THE DRUMS OF DEATH - - - Sometimes ’tis far off, and sometimes ’tis nigh, - Such drummerdery noises too they be! - ’Tis odd--oh, I do hope I baint to die - Just as the summer months be coming on, - And buffly chicken out, and bumble-bee: - Though, to be sure, I cannot hear ’em plain - For this drat row as goes a-drumming on, - Just like a little soldier in my brain. - - And oh, I’ve heard we got to go through flame - And water-floods--but maybe ’tisn’t true! - I allus were a-frightened o’ the sea. - And burning fires--oh, it would be a shame - And all the garden ripe, and sky so blue. - Such drummerdery noises, too, they be. - - - - -4. SETH BEMOANS THE OLDEST INHABITANT - - - We heard as we wer passing by the forge: - “’Er’s dead,” said he. - “’Tis Providence’s doing,” so said George. - “He’s allus doing summat,” so I said, - “You see this pig; we kept un aal the year - Fatting un up and priding in un, see, - And spent a yup o’ money--food so dear! - I wish ’twer ’e; - I’d liefer our fat pig had died than she.” - - - - -5. A RIVER, A PIG, AND BRAINS - - - Last fall, to sell his oldest perry, - Old Willum Fry did cross the ferry, - And thur inside of an old sty - ’A seed a leanish pig did lie: - A rakish, active beast ’a was - As ever rooted up the grass: - Eager as bees on making honey - To stuff his self. Bill did decide - To buy un with the cider money - And fat un up for Easter-tide. - - He bought un, but no net ’ad got - To kip thic pig inside the boat. - “The’ll drown wi’ pig and all at ferry!” - Cried one. Said Fry, “Go, bring some perry, - And this old drinking-horn you got, - Lying inside the piggery cot!” - - He poured a goodish swig and soon - --As lazy as a day o’ June-- - Piggy lay boozed, and so did bide - Snoring, while him and Fry were taken - ’Cross Severn: and ’a didn’t waken - Until the boat lay safely tied - Up to a tree on t’other side. - - - - -6. MARTHA BAZIN ON MARRIAGE - - - This is the fourth ’un, Miss, and if so be - As he do die out like the t’other three, - I’ll take another man (if one do ask). - Woman and man apart be like a cask - Without a bung, letting Life’s cider out, - The Almighty made to drink withouten doubt. - I never could abode the thought o’ waste - Whether of Life or cider, fit for taste. - But love him, Miss, you ask?--why, that I can, - And thank the Lord I could love any man. - - - - -_CHILDREN_ - - - - -1. LITTLE ABEL GOES TO CHURCH - - - And this is what he heard - And saw at church: - Oh, a great yellow bird - Upon a perch-- - Quite still upon a perch. - - And then a man in white - Got up and walked to it, - And talked to it - For a long while (he said); - But the yellow bird - (Although it must have heard!) - Never turned its head, - Or did anything at all - But look straight at the wall! - (_A true tale._) - - - - -2. DELIGHTS - - - Small Marjorie - In an apple-tree - Looks down upon the world with glee. - - Her brother Ted, - So he has said, - Loves best to see the chickens fed. - - And little Charlie likes to see - The Thresher working hard, when he - Hums like a dreadful bumble-bee. - - But Ann and Martha sit together - Reading, however gold the weather. - - - - -3. THE BOY WITH LITTLE BARE TOES - - - He ran all down the meadow, that he did, - The boy with the little bare toes. - The flowers they smelt so sweet, so sweet, - And the grass it felt so funny and wet - And the birds sang just like this--“chereep!” - And the willow-trees stood in rows. - “Ho! ho!” - Laughed the boy with the little bare toes. - - Now the trees had no insides--how funny! - Laughed the boy with the little bare toes. - And he put in his hand to find some money - Or honey--yes, that would be best--oh, best! - But what do you think he found, found, found? - Why, six little eggs all round, round, round, - And a mother-bird on the nest, - Oh, yes! - The mother-bird on her nest. - - He laughed, “Ha! ha!” and he laughed, “He! he!” - The boy with the little bare toes. - But the little mother-bird got up from her place - And flew right into his face, ho! ho! - And pecked him on the nose, “Oh! oh!” - Yes, pecked him right on the nose. - “Boo! Boo!” - Cried the boy with the little bare toes. - - - - -THE WIND IN TOWN TREES - - - What is it says the breeze - In London streets to-day - Unto the troubled trees - Whose shadows strew the way, - Whose leaves are all a-flutter? - - “You are wild!” the rascal cries. - The green tree beats its wings - And fills the air with sighs. - “Wild! Wild!” the rascal sings. - “But your feet are in the gutter!” - - Men pass beneath the trees - Walking the pavement grey, - They hear the whisperings tease - And at the word he utters - Their hearts are green and gay. - - Then like the gay, green trees, - They beat proud wings to fly, - But, like the fluttering trees, - Their footprints mark the gutters - Until the beggars die. - - - - -FORM - -(A STUDY) - - - Flower-like and shy, - You stand, sweet mortal, at the river’s brim: - With what unconscious grace - Your limbs to some strange law surrendering - Which lifts you clear of our humanity! - - Now would I sacrifice - Your breathing, warmth, and all the strange romance - Of living, to a moment. Ere you break - The greater thing than you, I would my eyes - Were basilisk to turn you into stone. - So should you be the world’s inheritance. - And souls of unborn men should draw their breath - From mortal you, immortalised in Death. - - - - -VILLANELLE - - - So is thy music unto me, - As the bright moon which tides obey, - As the white moon upon the sea. - - And like a wind that scatters free - The petals of an April day, - So is thy music unto me. - - It falleth light and quietly - And sweet as summer’s petals--nay, - As the white moon upon the sea. - - As moonlight falling silvery - On waves of wild and surging grey, - So is thy music unto me. - - As o’er each white and ebon key - I watch thy silver fingers play, - As the white moon upon the sea, - On headlands of eternity - My soul is hurled, and dashed in spray! - - So is thy music unto me - As the bright moon which tides obey, - As the white moon upon the sea. - - - - -KOSSOVO DAY - - - From this sweet nest of peace and summer blue-- - England in June--a sea-bird’s nest indeed - Guarded of waves, and hid by the sea-weed - From envious hunter’s eye, we send to you - Our flying thoughts and prayers, our treasure too, - Poor though it be to bandage wounds that bleed - For country dear beloved. There the seed - Of homely loves and occupations grew - To wither in the flame of godless might - Kindled by hands of treachery, yet reeking - With blood of friends and neighbours. Serbia, thou - Hast thought us careless and far off; know now - Thy name to us is sudden drums outspeaking - And tortured trumpets crying in the night! - - _Note._--This poem was sent from Crefeld, but was written in England - just before the author left for the front. - - - - -A PHILOSOPHY - - - Only in pages of men’s books I find - Swart villain and fair knight - Closing in fight. - Not piebald is mankind. - The soul is hued to such swift varying - As flying hornet’s sunshine-smitten wing. - - Therefore, dear brother men (where’er ye be), - Who strive for right - With such short sight, - ’Tis wise for little folk like you and me - Neither too much to praise nor yet to blame, - Since in our different ways we’re all the same. - - - - -CONSOLATOR AFFLICTORUM - - - “Must ever I be so - --Yellow and old?” you asked, - “With living overtasked, - Ugly, and racked with pains?” - I answered, “Even so, - Dearest; yet love remains.” - - - - -RECOGNITION - - - By Him Who made you sweet - And set your eyes so wide, - Who suffered us to meet - Despite of woman’s pride, - - And willed that we should know, - Despite of man’s gross sense, - The wonder and dawn-glow - Of Love’s omnipotence,-- - - By all of this I swear, - And by God’s self I vow, - We have met (I know not how) - Loving (I know not where): - - Perhaps in heaven above, - Perhaps in deep perdition. - And so this present love - Is but a recognition. - - - - -ON OVER BRIDGE AT EVENING - - - Faint grow the hills, but yet the night delays - To blot them utterly. Below their ridge - Of shadow lies the city in blue haze. - I watch its lamps awaken, from the bridge - Whereunder, running strongly to the sea, - Water goes fleeting softly in a brown - Wild loveliness. In heaven two or three - Small stars awaken and gaze shyly down.... - - White and alluring runs the dusty road - Into the country, and with yellow eyes - A hastening car comes purring with its load: - Like some great owl it hoots, and then it flies - Past, and is swallowed up in dusk. And, singing, - A country girl with basket homeward wends - --Sweet as the dusty roses that are clinging - Around the cottage where her journey ends. - - Night deepens, and the stars with strengthening rays - Thicken and go upon their lovely ways. - Where are the voices that have vexed us so? - Dear God, how quiet has Thy day become! - The clamorous tongues of Earth are smitten dumb, - Awed with the beauty that Thy work doth show. - - - - -PASSION - - - All life from passion springs. - In holy ecstasy - ’Midst whir of angel-wings, - Did God decree - The golden stars that shine: - The flaming morn, - And that this flesh of mine - Should once be born. - - And all the works of men - That live indeed: - Joyance of sword or pen, - High thought or deed, - Are in such primal fashion - Contrived and wrought. - God grant me fire of thought - To work Thy will--with Passion! - - - - -A COMMON PETITION - - - I crave not of the wonder - Of Thy full plan to see; - No secret would I plunder - Of guarded destiny; - This only grant to me: - - To hear the rolling thunder - Of Life--be man alive: - Yet through no body’s blunder - To drag the bright soul under - --Drowned where it needs must dive. - - Keeping against all Fate - That Thou hast given me-- - The dual mystery - Of man--inviolate. - - - - -AN ADVENTURE WITH GOD - - - Far worse than pain, - Unutterable weariness - Of blood and brain-- - Intolerable dreariness - Of days God gave me. - And I bethought - The first fresh flood of youth that rose to leave me, - And how in those brave days-- - Virgin of lust and spot-- - I had forgot - To render any praise. - Then, as I thus looked upward through the net - Wherein both soul and flesh lay cunningly caught, - God (’twas like Springtime calling from the earth - The flowers to birth!) - Smiled down and did restore - All that I had before. - - - - -THE STRANGER - - - It happened in a blood-red hell ringed round with golden weather; - Walking in khaki through a trench he came, - When life was death, and wounded men and great shells screamed - together: - I did not know his name. - But so white-faced and wan, we talked a little while together - Amongst dead men, and timbers black with flame. - - “What would you do with life again,” asks he, “if one could give it?” - “No use to talk when life is done,” I say. - “But, by the living God, if He should grant me life I’d live it - Kinder to man, truer to God each day.” - - Flame and the noise of doom devoured the words, and for a while - Senseless I lay.... Then, - Oh, then as in a dream I saw the stranger with a smile - Moving towards me over the dead men. - - Red, red were his hands and feet and a great hole in his side, - Yet glory seemed to blaze about his head; - “Kinder to man, truer to God,” he whispered, and then died; - Falling down, arms outspread. - Ere darkness fell upon me with the faintness and the pain, - I saw a mangled body lying prone - Upon the earth beside me. But what I can’t explain - Is--_The stretcher-bearers found me quite alone_. - - But, howsoe’er it happened, it matters not at last, - Since God’s dear Son came down to earth and died - In bloodshed, and the darkness of clouds that groaned aghast; - With pierced hands and a great wound in His side. - - It is not in my heart to hate the pleasant sins I leave. - Earth’s passion flames within me fierce and strong. - But this is like a shadow ever rising up to thieve - Sin’s pleasures, and the lure of every pattern lust can weave, - And charm of all things that can do Him wrong. - - - - -THE BUGLER - - - God dreamed a man; - Then, having firmly shut - Life like a precious metal in his fist, - Withdrew, His labour done. Thus did begin - Our various divinity and sin. - For some to ploughshares did the metal twist, - And others--dreaming empires--straightway cut - Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat - Long nails and heavy hammers for the feet - Of their forgotten Lord. (Who dare to boast - That he is guiltless?) Others coined it: most - Did with it--simply nothing. (Here, again, - Who cries his innocence?) Yet doth remain - Metal unmarred, to each man more or less, - Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness. - - For me, I do but bear within my hand - (For sake of Him our Lord, now long forsaken) - A simple bugle such as may awaken - With one high morning note a drowsing man: - That wheresoe’er within my motherland - The sound may come, ’twill echo far and wide - Like pipes of battle calling up a clan, - Trumpeting men through beauty to God’s side. - - - PRINTED BY - HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD., - LONDON AND AYLESBURY. - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLOUCESTERSHIRE FRIENDS: POEMS -FROM A GERMAN PRISON CAMP *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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