A Treasury of War Poetry Part 22

The gra.s.s was never trodden on, The little path of gravel Was overgrown with celandine; No other folk did travel Along its weedy surface but the nimble-footed mouse, Running from house to house.

So all along the tender blades Of soft and vivid gra.s.s We lay, nor heard the limber wheels That pa.s.s and ever pa.s.s In noisy continuity until their stony rattle Seems in itself a battle.

At length we rose up from this ease Of tranquil happy mind, And searched the garden's little length Some new pleasaunce to find; And there some yellow daffodils, and jasmine hanging high, Did rest the tired eye.

The fairest and most fragrant Of the many sweets we found Was a little bush of Daphne flower Upon a mossy mound, And so thick were the blossoms set and so divine the scent, That we were well content.

Hungry for Spring I bent my head, The perfume fanned my face, And all my soul was dancing In that lovely little place, Dancing with a measured step from wrecked and shattered towns Away ... upon the Downs.

I saw green banks of daffodil, Slim poplars in the breeze, Great tan-brown hares in gusty March A-courting on the leas.

And meadows, with their glittering streams--and silver-scurrying dace-- Home, what a perfect place!

_E. Wyndham Tennant_

A PEt.i.tION

All that a man might ask thou hast given me, England, Birthright and happy childhood's long heart's-ease, And love whose range is deep beyond all sounding And wider than all seas: A heart to front the world and find G.o.d in it.

Eyes blind enow but not too blind to see The lovely things behind the dross and darkness, And lovelier things to be; And friends whose loyalty time nor death shall weaken And quenchless hope and laughter's golden store-- All that a man might ask thou hast given me, England, Yet grant thou one thing more: That now when envious foes would spoil thy splendour, Unversed in arms, a dreamer such, as I, May in thy ranks be deemed not all unworthy, England, for thee to die.

_Robert Ernest Vernede_

FULFILMENT

Was there love once? I have forgotten her.

Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.

Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stir More grief, more joy, than love of thee and thine.

Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth, Lined by the wind, burned by the sun; Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth, As whose children we are brethren: one.

And any moment may descend hot death To shatter limbs! Pulp, tear, blast Beloved soldiers who love rough life and breath Not less for dying faithful to the last.

O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony, Oped mouth gus.h.i.+ng, fallen head, Lessening pressure of a hand, shrunk, clammed and stony!

O sudden spasm, release of the dead!

Was there love once? I have forgotten her.

Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.

O loved, living, dying, heroic soldier, All, all my joy, my grief, my love, are thine.

_Robert Nichols_

THE DAY'S MARCH

The battery grides and jingles, Mile succeeds to mile; Shaking the noonday suns.h.i.+ne The guns lunge out awhile, And then are still awhile.

We amble along the highway; The reeking, powdery dust Ascends and cakes our faces With a striped, sweaty crust.

Under the still sky's violet The heat throbs on the air....

The white road's dusty radiance a.s.sumes a dark glare.

With a head hot and heavy, And eyes that cannot rest, And a black heart burning In a stifled breast,

I sit in the saddle, I feel the road unroll, And keep my senses straightened Toward to-morrow's goal.

There, over unknown meadows Which we must reach at last, Day and night thunders A black and chilly blast.

Heads forget heaviness, Hearts forget spleen, For by that mighty winnowing Being is blown clean.

Light in the eyes again, Strength in the hand, A spirit dares, dies, forgives, And can understand!

And, best! Love comes back again After grief and shame, And along the wind of death Throws a clean flame.

The battery grides and jingles, Mile succeeds to mile; Suddenly battering the silence The guns burst out awhile....

I lift my head and smile.

_Robert Nichols_

THE SIGN

We are here in a wood of little beeches: And the leaves are like black lace Against a sky of nacre.

One bough of clear promise Across the moon.

It is in this wise that G.o.d speaketh unto me.

He layeth hands of healing upon my flesh, Stilling it in an eternal peace, Until my soul reaches out myriad and infinite hands Toward him, And is eased of its hunger.

And I know that this pa.s.ses: This implacable fury and torment of men, As a thing insensate and vain: And the stillness hath said unto me, Over the tumult of sounds and shaken flame, Out of the terrible beauty of wrath, _I alone am eternal._

One bough of clear promise Across the moon.