  If I were on the High Road That runs to Malvern Town, I should not need to read, to smoke, My fear of death to drown; Watching the clouds, skies, shadows dappling The sweet land up and down. But here the shells rush over, We lie in evil holes, We burrow into darkness Like rabbits or like moles, Men that have breathed the Severn air, Men that have eyes and souls. To-day the grass runs over With ripples like the sea, And men stand up and drink air Easy and sweet and free; But days like this are half a curse, And Beauty troubles me. The shadows under orchards there Must be as clear and black— At Minsterworth, at Framilode— As though we had all come back; Were out at making hay or tedding, Piling the yellow stack. The gardens grow as freshly On Cotswold’s green and white; The grey-stone cottage colours Are lovely to the sight, As we were glad for dreams there, Slept deep at home at night; While here we die a dozen deaths A score of times a day; Trying to keep up heart and not To give ourselves away. “Two years longer,” “Peace to-morrow,” “Some time yet,” they say! |
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