A Treasury of War Poetry Part 24

I know a beach road, A road where I would go, It runs up northward From Cooden Bay to Hoe; And there, in the High Woods, Daffodils grow.

And whoever walks along there Stops short and sees, By the moist tree-roots In a clearing of the trees, Yellow great battalions of them, Blowing in the breeze.

While the spring sun brightens, And the dull sky clears, They blow their golden trumpets, Those golden trumpeteers!

They blow their golden trumpets And they shake their glancing spears.

And all the rocking beech-trees Are bright with buds again, And the green and open s.p.a.ces Are greener after rain, And far to southward one can hear The sullen, moaning rain.

Once before I die I will leave the town behind, The loud town, the dark town That cramps and chills the mind, And I'll stand again bareheaded there In the sunlight and the wind.

Yes, I shall stand Where as a boy I stood Above the d.y.k.es and levels In the beach road by the wood, And I'll smell again the sea breeze, Salt and harsh and good.

And there shall rise to me From that consecrated ground The old dreams, the lost dreams That years and cares have drowned; Welling up within me And above me and around The song that I could never sing And the face I never found.

_Geoffrey Howard_

GERMAN PRISONERS

When first I saw you in the curious street Like some platoon of soldier ghosts in grey, My mad impulse was all to smite and slay, To spit upon you--tread you 'neath my feet.

But when I saw how each sad soul did greet My gaze with no sign of defiant frown, How from tired eyes looked spirits broken down, How each face showed the pale flag of defeat, And doubt, despair, and disillusionment, And how were grievous wounds on many a head.

And on your garb red-faced was other red; And how you stooped as men whose strength was spent, I knew that we had suffered each as other, And could have grasped your hand and cried, "My brother!"

_Joseph Lee_

"--BUT A SHORT TIME TO LIVE"

Our little hour,--how swift it flies When poppies flare and lilies smile; How soon the fleeting minute dies, Leaving us but a little while To dream our dream, to sing our song, To pick the fruit, to pluck the flower, The G.o.ds--They do not give us long,-- One little hour.

Our little hour,--how short it is When Love with dew-eyed loveliness Raises her lips for ours to kiss And dies within our first caress.

Youth flickers out like wind-blown flame, Sweets of to-day to-morrow sour, For Time and Death, relentless, claim Our little hour.

Our little hour,--how short a tune To wage our wars, to fan our hates, To take our fill of armoured crime, To troop our banners, storm the gates.

Blood on the sword, our eyes blood-red, Blind in our puny reign of power, Do we forget how soon is sped Our little hour?

Our little hour,--how soon it dies: How short a time to tell our beads, To chant our feeble Litanies, To think sweet thoughts, to do good deeds.

The altar lights grow pale and dim, The bells hang silent in the tower-- So pa.s.ses with the dying hymn Our little hour.

_Leslie Coulson_

BEFORE ACTION

By all the glories of the day, And the cool evening's benison: By the last sunset touch that lay Upon the hills when day was done; By beauty lavishly outpoured, And blessings carelessly received, By all the days that I have lived, Make me a soldier, Lord.

By all of all men's hopes and fears, And all the wonders poets sing, The laughter of unclouded years, And every sad and lovely thing: By the romantic ages stored With high endeavour that was his, By all his mad catastrophes, Make me a man, O Lord.

I, that on my familiar hill Saw with uncomprehending eyes A hundred of Thy sunsets spill Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice, Ere the sun swings his noonday sword Must say good-bye to all of this:-- By all delights that I shall miss, Help me to die, O Lord.

_W. N. Hodgson ("Edward Melbourne")_

COURAGE

Alone amid the battle-din untouched Stands out one figure beautiful, serene; No grime of smoke nor reeking blood hath s.m.u.tched The virgin brow of this unconquered queen.

She is the Joy of Courage vanquishing The unstilled tremors of the fearful heart; And it is she that bids the poet sing, And gives to each the strength to bear his part.

Her eye shall not be dimmed, but as a flame Shall light the distant ages with its fire, That men may know the glory of her name, That purified our souls of fear's desire.

And she doth calm our sorrow, soothe our pain, And she shall lead us back to peace again.

_Dyneley Hussey_

OPTIMISM

At last there'll dawn the last of the long year, Of the long year that seemed to dream no end, Whose every dawn but turned the world more drear, And slew some hope, or led away some friend.

Or be you dark, or buffeting, or blind, We care not, day, but leave not death behind.

The hours that feed on war go heavy-hearted, Death is no fare wherewith to make hearts fain.

Oh, we are sick to find that they who started With glamour in their eyes came not again.

O day, be long and heavy if you will, But on our hopes set not a bitter heel.

For tiny hopes like tiny flowers of Spring Will come, though death and ruin hold the land, Though storms may roar they may not break the wing Of the earthed lark whose song is ever bland.

Fell year unpitiful, slow days of scorn, Your kind shall die, and sweeter days be born.

_A. Victor Ratcliffe_

THE BATTLEFIELD