  England has found another voice in you Of beauty and of truth, True to their soul, as you are true— Singer and soldier, yet a youth. Out of the trenches and the rage of blood, The hatred and the lies You, like a wounded sky-lark, in a flood Pour forth these melodies, Of a spirit which has suffered, yet has soared Above the stench of hell and death's defeats. I look at you, as often I have pored On the death mask of Keats. Or the face of him quickly and gladly going The waves of the sea under, To the land of man's unknowing, Or the land of wonder. And the war had you! what can it give In return for souls like yours Mangled or blotted out?—who shall forgive The war while time endures? Back of the shouting mob, the brazen bands, The soldiers marching well, Gangrene cries out and Rupert Brooke's hands Clutch in a hemorrhage of hell. Yet you found God through this? through war, Through love found vision, perhaps peace? Keep them in your breast like the morning star— May their light increase. Waves on the sea's breast catch the light While the hollows between Are dark—you are a wave whose height Is smitten by the Light unseen, Urged by the Sea's power to the glory Of the christening sun. When the calm comes and darkness, transitory Be your doubt, or none. These words from me who have the hard way traveled Of pain and thought, In a weaving never wholly unraveled, Or wholly wrought, For your spirit and your songs, gladness For the hope of you, and praise To life, who gave you out of the world's madness In these our days. |
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