  (A Song of Oxford) They had so much to lose; their radiant laughter Shook my old walls—how short a time ago. I hold the echoes of their song hereafter Among the precious things I used to know. Their cup of life was full to overflowing, All earth had laid its tribute at their feet. What harvest might we hope from such a sowing? What noonday from a dawning so complete? And I—I watched them working, dreaming, playing, Saw their young bodies fit the mind's desire, Felt them reach outward, upward, still obeying The passionate dictates of their hidden fire. Yet here and there some graybeard breathed derision, "Too much of luxury, too soft an age! Your careless Galahads will see no vision, No mark?—Go ask the broken fields in Flanders, Ask the great dead who watched in ancient Troy, Ask the old moon as round the world she wanders What of the men who were my hope and joy! They are but fragments of Imperial splendour, Handfuls of might amid a mighty host, Yet I, who saw them go with proud surrender, May surely claim to love them first and most. They who had all, gave all. Their half-writ story Lies in the empty halls they knew so well, But they, the knights of God, shall see His glory, And find the Grail ev'n in the fire of hell. Mildred Huxley By permission of the Author |
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