In Flanders Fields and Other Poems Part 2

Ah, little eyes Dead blossoms of a springtime long ago, That life's storm crushed and left to lie below The benediction of the falling snow!

Sleep, little heart That ceased so long ago its frantic beat!

The years that come and go with silent feet Have naught to tell save this -- that rest is sweet.

Dear little heart.

The Oldest Drama

_"It fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reapers.

And he said unto his father, My head, my head. And he said to a lad, Carry him to his mother. And ... he sat on her knees till noon, and then died. And she went up, and laid him on the bed... .

And shut the door upon him and went out."_

Immortal story that no mother's heart Ev'n yet can read, nor feel the biting pain That rent her soul! Immortal not by art Which makes a long past sorrow sting again

Like grief of yesterday: but since it said In simplest word the truth which all may see, Where any mother sobs above her dead And plays anew the silent tragedy.

Recompense

I saw two sowers in Life's field at morn, To whom came one in angel guise and said, "Is it for labour that a man is born?

Lo: I am Ease. Come ye and eat my bread!"

Then gladly one forsook his task undone And with the Tempter went his slothful way, The other toiled until the setting sun With stealing shadows blurred the dusty day.

Ere harvest time, upon earth's peaceful breast Each laid him down among the unreaping dead.

"Labour hath other recompense than rest, Else were the toiler like the fool," I said; "G.o.d meteth him not less, but rather more Because he sowed and others reaped his store."

Mine Host

There stands a hostel by a travelled way; Life is the road and Death the worthy host; Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say, "How have ye fared?" They answer him, the most, "This lodging place is other than we sought; We had intended farther, but the gloom Came on apace, and found us ere we thought: Yet will we lodge. Thou hast abundant room."

Within sit haggard men that speak no word, No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed; No voice of fellowship or strife is heard But silence of a mult.i.tude of dead.

"Naught can I offer ye," quoth Death, "but rest!"

And to his chamber leads each tired guest.

Equality

I saw a King, who spent his life to weave Into a nation all his great heart thought, Unsatisfied until he should achieve The grand ideal that his manhood sought; Yet as he saw the end within his reach, Death took the sceptre from his failing hand, And all men said, "He gave his life to teach The task of honour to a sordid land!"

Within his gates I saw, through all those years, One at his humble toil with cheery face, Whom (being dead) the children, half in tears, Remembered oft, and missed him from his place.

If he be greater that his people blessed Than he the children loved, G.o.d knoweth best.

Anarchy

I saw a city filled with l.u.s.t and shame, Where men, like wolves, slunk through the grim half-light; And sudden, in the midst of it, there came One who spoke boldly for the cause of Right.

And speaking, fell before that brutish race Like some poor wren that shrieking eagles tear, While brute Dishonour, with her bloodless face Stood by and smote his lips that moved in prayer.

"Speak not of G.o.d! In centuries that word Hath not been uttered! Our own king are we."

And G.o.d stretched forth his finger as He heard And o'er it cast a thousand leagues of sea.

Disarmament

One spake amid the nations, "Let us cease From darkening with strife the fair World's light, We who are great in war be great in peace.

No longer let us plead the cause by might."

But from a million British graves took birth A silent voice -- the million spake as one -- "If ye have righted all the wrongs of earth Lay by the sword! Its work and ours is done."

The Dead Master

Amid earth's vagrant noises, he caught the note sublime: To-day around him surges from the silences of Time A flood of n.o.bler music, like a river deep and broad, Fit song for heroes gathered in the banquet-hall of G.o.d.

The Harvest of the Sea