A Treasury of War Poetry Part 34

Moon, slow rising, over the trembling sea-rim, Moon of the lifted tides and their folded burden.

Look, look down. And gather the blinded oceans, Moon of compa.s.sion.

Come, white Silence, over the one sea pathway: Pour with hallowing hands on the surge and outcry, Silver flame; and over the famished blackness, Petals of moonlight.

Once again, the formless void of a world-wreck Gropes its way through the echoing dark of chaos; Tide on tide, to the calling, lost horizons,-- One in the darkness.

You that veil the light of the all-beholding, Shed white tidings down to the dooms of longing, Down to the timeless dark; and the sunken treasures, One in the darkness.

Touch, and harken,--under that shrouding silver, Rise and fall, the heart of the sea and its legions, All and one; one with the breath of the deathless, Rising and falling.

Touch and waken so, to a far hereafter, Ebb and flow, the deep, and the dead in their longing: Till at last, on the hungering face of the waters, There shall be Light.

_Light of Light, give us to see, for their sake.

Light of Light, grant them eternal peace; And let light perpetual s.h.i.+ne upon them; Light, everlasting._

_Josephine Preston Peabody_

MY SON

Here is his little cambric frock That I laid by in lavender so sweet, And here his tiny shoe and sock I made with loving care for his dear feet.

I fold the frock across my breast, And in imagination, ah, my sweet, Once more I hush my babe to rest, And once again I warm those little feet.

Where do those strong young feet now stand?

In flooded trench, half numb to cold or pain, Or marching through the desert sand To some dread place that they may never gain.

G.o.d guide him and his men to-day!

Though death may lurk in any tree or hill, His brave young spirit is their stay, Trusting in that they'll follow where he will.

They love him for his tender heart When poverty or sorrow asks his aid, But he must see each do his part-- Of cowardice alone he is afraid.

I ask no honours on the field, That other men have won as brave as he-- I only pray that G.o.d may s.h.i.+eld My son, and bring him safely back to me!

_Ada Tyrrell_

TO THE OTHERS

This was the gleam then that lured from far Your son and my son to the Holy War: Your son and my son for the accolade With the banner of Christ over them, in steel arrayed.

All quiet roads of life ran on to this; When they were little for their mother's kiss.

Little feet hastening, so soft, unworn, To the vows and the vigil and the road of thorn.

Your son and my son, the downy things, Sheltered in mother's breast, by mother's wings, Should they be broken in the Lord's wars--Peace!

He Who has given them--are they not His?

Dream of knight's armour and the battle-shout, Fighting and falling at the last redoubt, Dream of long dying on the field of slain; This was the dream that lured, nor lured in vain.

These were the Voices they heard from far; Bugles and trumpets of the Holy War.

Your son and my son have heard the call, Your son and my son have stormed the wall.

Your son and my son, clean as new swords; Your man and my man and now the Lord's!

Your son and my son for the Great Crusade, With the banner of Christ over them--our knights new-made.

_Katharine Tynan_

THE JOURNEY

I went upon a journey To countries far away, From province unto province To pa.s.s my holiday.

And when I came to Serbia, In a quiet little town At an inn with a flower-filled garden With a soldier I sat down.

Now he lies dead at Belgrade.

You heard the cannon roar!

It boomed from Rome to Stockholm, It pealed to the far west sh.o.r.e.

And when I came to Russia, A man with flowing hair Called me his friend and showed me A flowing river there.

Now he lies dead at Lemberg, Beside another stream, In his dark eyes extinguished The friends.h.i.+p of his dream.

And then I crossed two countries Whose names on my lips are sealed....

Not yet had they flung their challenge Nor led upon the field

Sons who lie dead at Liege, Dead by the Russian lance, Dead in southern mountains, Dead through the farms of France.

I stopped in the land of Louvain, So tranquil, happy, then.

I lived with a good old woman, With her sons and her grandchildren.

Now they lie dead at Louvain, Those simple kindly folk.

Some heard, some fled. It must be Some slept, for they never woke.

I came to France. I was thirsty.

I sat me down to dine.

The host and his young wife served me With bread and fruit and wine.

Now he lies dead at Cambrai-- He was sent among the first.

In dreams she sees him dying Of wounds, of heat, of thirst.