  (Note.—At Oxford on May 1st a Latin hymn is sung at sunrise by the Magdalen choristers from the top of the tower.) The rising sun shone warmly on the tower, Into the clear pure Heaven the hymn aspired Piercingly sweet. This was the morning hour When life awoke with Spring’s creative power, And the old City’s grey to gold was fired. Silently reverent stood the noisy throng; Under the bridge the boats in long array Lay motionless. The choristers’ far song Faded upon the breeze in echoes long. Swiftly I left the bridge and rode away. Straight to a little wood’s green heart I sped, Where cowslips grew, beneath whose gold withdrawn The fragrant earth peeped warm and richly red; All trace of Winter’s chilling touch had fled, And song-birds ushered in the year’s bright morn. I had met Love not many days before, And as in blissful mood I listening lay None ever had of joy so full a store. I thought that Spring must last for evermore, For I was young and loved, and it was May. . . . . . . . . . . Now it is May again, and sweetly clear Perhaps once more aspires the Latin hymn From Magdalen tower, but not for me to hear. I toil far distant, for a darker year Shadows the century with menace grim. I walk in ways where pain and sorrow dwell, And ruin such as only War can bring, Where each lives through his individual hell, Fraught with remembered horror none can tell, And no more is there glory in the Spring. And I am worn with tears, for he I loved Lies cold beneath the stricken sod of France; Hope has forsaken me, by Death removed, And Love that seemed so strong and gay has proved A poor crushed thing, the toy of cruel Chance. Often I wonder, as I grieve in vain, If when the long, long future years creep slow, And War and tears alike have ceased to reign, I ever shall recapture, once again, The mood of that May morning, long ago. 1st London General Hospital, May 1916. |
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