I heard shrill notes begin down the spired wood distinct,
When cloudy shoals were chinked and gilt with fires of day.
White-misted was the weald; the lawns were silver-grey;
The lark his lonely field for heaven had forsaken;
And the wind upon its way whispered the boughs of may,
And touched the nodding peony-flowers to bid them waken.
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Three hours ago he blundered up the trench,
Sometimes he tripped and lurched against the wallsWith hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk.He couldn’t see the man who walked in front;Only he heard the drum and rattle of feetStepping along barred trench boards, often splashingWretchedly where the sludge was ankle-deep.Voices would grunt `Keep to your right — make way!’When squeezing past some…
Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight,
(They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight,And I was hobbling back; and then a shellBurst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fellInto the bottomless mud, and lost the light.At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew,He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare:For, though low down upon the list, I’m there;‘In proud and glorious…
Come in this hour to set my spirit free
And stretching forth these arms I cannot beLord of winged sunrise and dim Arcady:When fieldward boys far off with clack and shoutFrom orchards scare the birds in sudden rout,Come, ere my heart grows cold and full of doubt,In the still summer dawns that waken me.When the first lark goes up to look for dayAnd morning…
Well, how are things in Heaven? I wish you’d say,
Tell me, have you found everlasting day,Or been sucked in by everlasting night?For when I shut my eyes your face shows plain;I hear you make some cheery old remark—I can rebuild you in my brain,Though you’ve gone out patrolling in the dark.You hated tours of trenches; you were proudOf nothing more than having good years…
Cry out on Time that he may take away
Of spirit-quickened flesh; fall down and prayThat Death come never with a face of flint:Death is our heritage; with Life we shareThe sunlight that must own his darkening hour:Within his very presence yet we dareTo gather gladness like a fading flower.For even as this, our joy not long may livePerfect; and most in change the…
Groping along the tunnel, step by step,
From side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air.Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know,A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed;And he, exploring fifty feet belowThe rosy gloom of battle overhead.Tripping, he grapped the wall; saw someone lieHumped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug,And stooped to give the sleeper’s arm a tug.‘I’m…