  I.—THE BURIAL IN FLANDERS(H. S. G., Ypres, 1916)Through the light rain I think I see them going, Through the light rain under the muffled skies; Across the fields a stealthy wet wind wanders, The mist bedews their tunics, dizzies their brains. Shoulder-high, khaki shoulder by shoulder, They bear my Boy upon his last journey. Night is closing. The wind sighs, ebbs, and falters.... They totter dreaming, deem they see his face. Even as Vikings of old their slaughtered leader Upon their shoulders, so now bear they on All that remains of Boy, my friend, their leader, An officer who died for them under the dawn. O that I were there that I might carry, Might share that bitter load in grief, in pride!... I see upon bronze faces love, submission, And a dumb sorrow for that cheerful Boy. Now they arrive. The priest repeats the service. The drifting rain obscures. They are dispersed. The dying sun streams out: a moment's radiance; The still, wet, glistening grave; the trod sward steaming. Sudden great guns startle, echoing on the silence. Thunder. Thunder. He has Fallen in battle. (O Boy! Boy!) Lessening now. The rain Patters anew. Far guns rumble and shudder And night descends upon the desolate plain. Lawford, September, 1916. II.—BOYIn a far field, away from England, lies A Boy I friended with a care like love; All day the wide earth aches, the cold wind cries, The melancholy clouds drive on above. There, separate from him by a little span, Two eagle cousins, generous, reckless, free, Two Grenfells, lie, and my Boy is made man, One with these elder knights of chivalry. Boy, who expected not this dreadful day, Yet leaped, a soldier, at the sudden call, Drank as your fathers, deeper though than they, The soldier's cup of anguish, blood, and gall, Not now as friend, but as a soldier, I Salute you fallen; for the Soldier's name Our greatest honour is, if worthily These wayward hearts assume and bear the same: The Soldier's is a name none recognize, Saving his fellows. Deeds are all his flower. He lives, he toils, he suffers, and he dies, And if not all in vain this is his dower: The Soldier is the Martyr of a nation, Expresses but is subject to its will; His is the Pride ennobles Resignation, As his the rebel Spirit-to-fulfil. Anonymous, he takes his country's name, Becomes its blindest vassal—though its lord By force of arms; its shame is called his shame, As its the glory gathered by his sword. Lonely he is: he has nor friend nor lover, Sith in his body he is dedicate.... His comrades only share his life, or offer Their further deeds to one more heart oblate. Living, he's made an 'Argument Beyond' For others' peace; but when hot wars have birth, For all his brothers' safety becomes bond To Fate or Whatsoever sways this Earth. Dying, his mangled body, to inter it, He doth bequeath him into comrade hands; His soul he renders to some Captain Spirit That knows, admires, pities, and understands! All this you knew by that which doth reside Deeper than learning; by apprehension Of ancient, dark, and melancholy pride You were a Soldier true, and died as one. All day the cold wind cries, the clouds unroll; But to the cloud and wind I cry, "Be still!" What need of comfort has the heroic soul? What soldier finds a soldier's grave is chill? Lawford, September, 1916. III.—PLAINT OF FRIENDSHIP BY DEATH BROKEN(R. P., Loos, 1915)God, if Thou livest, Thine eye on me bend, And stay my grief and bring my pain to end: Pain for my lost, the deepest, rarest friend Man ever had, whence groweth this despair. I had a friend: but, O! he is now dead; I had a vision: for which he has bled: I had happiness: but it is fled. God help me now, for I must needs despair. His eyes were dark and sad, yet never sad; In them moved sombre figures sable-clad; They were the deepest eyes man ever had, They were my solemn joy—now my despair. In my perpetual night they on me look, Reading me slowly; and I cannot brook Their silent beauty, for nor crack nor nook Can cover me but they shall find me there. His face was straight, his mouth was wide yet trim; His hair was tangled black, and through its dim Softness his perplexed hand would writhe and swim— Hands that were small on arms strong-knit yet spare. He stood no taller than our common span, Swam but nor farther leaped nor faster ran; I know him spirit now, who seemed a man. God help me now, for I must needs despair. His voice was low and clear, yet it could rise And beat in indignation at the skies; Then no man dared to meet his fire-filled eyes, And even I, his own friend, did not dare. With humorous wistfulness he spoke to us, Yet there was something more mysterious, Beyond his words or silence, glorious: I know not what, but we could feel it there. I mind now how we sat one winter night While past his open window raced the bright Snow-torrent golden in the hot firelight.... I see him smiling at the streamered air. I watched him to the open window go, And lean long smiling, whispering to the snow, Play with his hands amid the fiery flow And when he turned it flamed amid his hair. Without arose a sudden bell's huge clang Until a thousand bells in answer rang And midnight Oxford hummed and reeled and sang Under the whitening fury of the air. His figure standing in the fiery room.... Behind him the snow seething through the gloom.... The great bells shaking, thundering out their doom.... Soft Fiery Snow and Night his being were. Yet he could be simply glad and take his choice, Walking spring woods, mimicking each bird voice; When he was glad we learned how to rejoice: If the birds sing, 'tis to my spite they dare. All women loved him, yet his mother won His tenderness alone, for Moon and Sun And Rain were for him sister, brother, lovÈd one, And in their life he took an equal share. Strength he had, too; strength of unrusted will Buttressed his natural charity, and ill Fared it with him who sought his good to kill: He was its Prince and Champion anywhere. Yet he had weakness, for he burned too fast; And his unrecked-of body at the last He in impatience on the bayonets cast, Body whose spirit had outsoared them there. I had a friend, but, O! he is now dead. Fate would not let me follow where he led. In him I had happiness. But he is dead. God help me now, for I must needs despair. God, if Thou livest, and indeed didst send Thine only Son to be to all a Friend, Bid His dark, pitying eyes upon me bend, And His hand heal, or I must needs despair. In Hospital, Autumn, 1915. IV.—BY THE WOODHow still the day is, and the air how bright! A thrush sings and is silent in the wood; The hillside sleeps dizzy with heat and light; A rhythmic murmur fills the quietude; A woodpecker prolongs his leisured flight, Rising and falling on the solitude. But there are those who far from yon wood lie, Buried within the trench where all were found. A weight of mould oppresses every eye, Within that cabin close their limbs are bound, And there they rot amid the long profound, Disastrous silence of grey earth and sky. These once, too, rested where now rests but one, Who scarce can lift his panged and heavy head, Who drinks in grief the hot light of the sun, Whose eyes watch dully the green branches spread, Who feels his currents ever slowlier run, Whose lips repeat a silent '... Dead! all dead!' O youths to come shall drink air warm and bright, Shall hear the bird cry in the sunny wood, All my Young England fell to-day in fight: That bird, that wood, was ransomed by our blood! I pray you when the drum rolls let your mood Be worthy of our deaths and your delight. 1916. |
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