Many Voices: Poems Part 11

LAST year the fields were all glad and gay With silver daisies and silver may; There were kingcups gold by the river's edge And primrose stars under every hedge.

This year the fields are trampled and brown, The hedges are broken and beaten down, And where the primroses used to grow Are little black crosses set in a row.

And the flower of hopes, and the flowers of dreams, The n.o.ble, fruitful, beautiful schemes, The tree of life with its fruit and bud, Are trampled down in the mud and the blood.

The changing seasons will bring again The magic of Spring to our wood and plain: Though the Spring be so green as never was seen The crosses will still be black in the green.

The G.o.d of battles shall judge the foe Who trampled our country and laid her low . . .

G.o.d! hold our hands on the reckoning day, Lest all we owe them we should repay.

1915.

SPRING IN WAR-TIME

NOW the sprinkled blackthorn snow Lies along the lovers' lane Where last year we used to go- Where we shall not go again.

In the hedge the buds are new, By our wood the violets peer- Just like last year's violets, too, But they have no scent this year.

Every bird has heart to sing Of its nest, warmed by its breast; We had heart to sing last spring, But we never built our nest.

Presently red roses blown Will make all the garden gay . . .

Not yet have the daisies grown On your clay.

1916.

THE MOTHER'S PRAYER

THIS was my little son Who leapt and laughed on my knee: Body we made with love, Soul made with love by Thee.

This was the mystery In which I worshipped Thy grace; This was the sign to me- The unveiling of Thy face . . .

This, that lies under Thy skies Naked as on that day When the floor of heaven gave way And the glory of G.o.d shone through, When the world was made new And Thy word was made flesh for me . . .

He lies there, bare to Thy skies, O Lord G.o.d, see!

Body that was in mine A secret, sacred spell, Little hands I have kissed Trampled by beasts in h.e.l.l . . .

Growing beauty and grace . . .

Oh, head that lay on my bosom . . .

Broken, battered, shattered . . .

Body that grew like a blossom!

All that was promised me On my life's royal day.

Every promise broken- Only a ghost, and clay!

O G.o.d, I kneel at Thy feet; I lay my hands in Thine: Thou gavest Thy Son for the world, And shall _I_ not give mine?

Only-O G.o.d, have pity!

All my defences are down: G.o.d, I accept the Cross, Let _him_ have the Crown!

By all that my love has borne, By all that all mothers bear, By the infinite patient anguish, By the never-ceasing prayer, By the thoughts that cut like a living knife, By the tears that are never dry, Take what he died to win You- G.o.d, take Your victory!

We have watched on till the light burned low, And watched the dawn awake; We have lived hardly and hardly fared For our sons' sake.

All that was good in Thy earth, All that taught us of Heaven, All that we had in the world We have given.

We pray with empty hands And hearts that are stiff with pain.

O G.o.d! O G.o.d! O G.o.d!

Let the sacrifice not be vain.

This is his blood, Lord, see!

His blood that was shed for Thee; Thy banner is dyed in that red tide Lord, take Thy victory!

G.o.d! give Thine angels power To fight as he fought, To scatter the hosts of evil, To bring their boastings to naught- Gabriel with trumpet of battle . . .

Michael, who wields Thy sword . . .

Breathe Thou Thy spirit upon them, Put forth Thy strength, O Lord.

See, Lord, this is his body, Broken for Thee, for Thee . . .

My son, my little son, Who leapt and laughed on my knee.

"INASMUCH AS YE DID IT NOT . . . "

IF Jesus came to London, Came to London to-day, He would not go to the West End, He would come down our way; He'd talk with the children dancing To the organ out in the street, And say he was their big Brother, And give them something to eat.

He wouldn't go to the mansions Where the charitable live; He'd come to the tenement houses Where we ain't got nothing to give.

He'd come so kind and so homely, And treat us to beer and bread, And tell us how we ought to behave; And we'd try to mind what He said.

In the warm bright West End churches They sing and preach and pray, They call us "Beloved brethren,"

But they do not act that way.

And when He came to the church door He'd call out loud and free, "You stop that preaching and praying And show what you've done for Me."

Then they'd say, "O Lord, we have given To the poor both blankets and tracts, And we've tried to make them sober, And we've tried to teach them facts.

But they will sneak round to the drink-shop, And p.a.w.n the blankets for beer, And we find them very ungrateful, But still we persevere."

Then He would say, "I told you The time I was here before, That you were all of you brothers, All you that I suffered for.

I won't go into your churches, I'll stop in the sun outside.

You bring out the men your brothers, The men for whom I died!"

Out of our beastly lodgings, From arches and doorways about, They'd have to do as He told them, They'd have to call us out.

Millions and millions and millions, Thick and crawling like flies, We should creep out to the sunshine And not be afraid of His eyes.

He'd see what G.o.d's image looks like When men have dealt with the same, Wrinkled with work that is never done, Swollen and dirty with shame.

He'd see on the children's forehead The branded gutter-sign That marks the girls to be harlots, That dooms the boys to be swine.

Then He'd say, "What's the good of churches When these have nowhere to sleep?

And how can I hear you praying When they are cursing so deep?