Poems, 1916-1918 Part 4

But more than this I saw, That dead stranger welcoming, more than the raw And brutal havoc of war.

England I saw, the mother from whose side He came hither and died, she at whose hems he had play'd, In whose quiet womb his body and soul were made.

That pale, estranged flesh that we bowed over Had breathed the scent in summer of white clover; Dreamed her cool fading nights, her twilights long, And days as careless as a blackbird's song Heard in the hush of eve, when midges' wings Make a thin music, and the night-jar spins.

(For it is summer, I thought, in England now....) And once those forward gazing eyes had seen Her lovely living green: that blackened brow Cool airs, from those blue hills moving, had fann'd-- Breath of that holy land Whither my soul aspireth without despair: In the broken brain had many a lovely word Awakened magical echoes of things heard, Telling of love and laughter and low voices, And tales in which the English heart rejoices In vanishing visions of childhood and its glories: Old-fashioned nursery rhymes and fairy stories: Words that only an English tongue could tell.

And the firing died away; and the night fell On our battle. Only in the sullen sky A prairie fire, with huge fantastic flame Leapt, lighting dark clouds charged with thunder.

And my heart was sick with shame That there, in death, he should lie, Crying: 'Oh, why am I alive, I wonder?'

In a dream I saw war riding the land: Stark rode she, with bowed eyes, against the glare Of sack'd cities smouldering in the dark, A tired horse, lean, with outreaching head, And hid her face of dread....

Yet, in my pa.s.sion would I look on her, Crying, O hark, Thou pale one, whom now men say bearest the scythe Of G.o.d, that iron scythe forged by his thunder For reaping of nations overripened, fashioned Upon the clanging anvil whose sparks, flying In a starry night, dying, fall hereunder....

But she, she heeded not my cry impa.s.sioned Nor turned her face of dread, Urging the tired horse, with outreaching head, O thou, cried I, who choosest for thy going These bloomy meadows of youth, these flowery ways Whereby no influence strays Ruder than a cold wind blowing, Or beating needles of rain, Why must thou ride again Ruthless among the pastures yet unripened, Crushing their beauty in thine iron track Downtrodden, ravish'd in thy following flame, Parched and black?

But she, she stayed not in her weary haste Nor turned her face; but fled: And where she pa.s.sed the lands lay waste....

And now I cannot tell whither she rideth: But tired, tired rides she.

Yet know I well why her dread face she hideth: She is pale and faint to death. Yea, her day faileth, Nor all her blood, nor all her frenzy burning, Nor all her hate availeth: For she pa.s.seth out of sight Into that night From which none, none returneth To waste the meadows of youth, Nor vex thine eyelids, Routhe, O sorrowful sister, soother of our sorrow.

And a hope within me springs That fair will be the morrow, And that charred plain, Those flowery meadows, shall rejoice at last In a sweet, clean Freshness, as when the green Gra.s.s springeth, where the prairie fire hath pa.s.sed.

AFTER ACTION

All through that day of battle the broken sound Of shattering Maxim fire made mad the wood; So that the low trees shuddered where they stood, And echoes bellowed in the bush around: But when, at last the light of day was drowned, That madness ceased.... Ah, G.o.d, but it was good!

There, in the reek of iodine and blood, I flung me down upon the th.o.r.n.y ground.

So quiet was it, I might well have been lying In a room I love, where the ivy cl.u.s.ter shakes Its dew upon the lattice panes at even: Where rusty ivory scatters from the dying Jessamine blossom, and the musk-rose breaks Her dusky bloom beneath a summer heaven.

SONNET

Not only for remembered loveliness, England, my mother, my own, we hold thee rare Who toil, and fight, and sicken beneath the glare Of brazen skies that smile on our duress, Making us crave thy cloudy state no less Than the sweet clarity of thy rain-wash'd air, Meadows in moonlight cool, and every fair Slow-fading flower of thy summer dress: Not for thy flowers, but for the unfading crown Of sacrifice our happy brothers wove thee: The joyous ones who laid thy beauty down Nor stayed to see it shamed. For these we love thee, For this (O love, O dread!) we hold thee more Divinely fair to-day than heretofore.

A FAREWELL TO AFRICA

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Now once again, upon the pole-star's bearing, We plough these furrowed fields where no blade springeth; Again the busy trade in the halyards singeth Sun-whitened spindrift from the blown wave shearing; The uncomplaining sea suffers our faring; In a brazen glitter our little wake is lost, And the starry south rolls over until no ghost Remaineth of us and all our pitiful daring; For the sea beareth no trace of man's endeavour, His might enarmoured, his prosperous argosies, Soundless, within her unsounded caves, forever She broodeth, knowing neither war nor peace, And our grey cruisers holds in mind no more Than the cedarn fleets that Sheba's treasure bore.

SONG

What is the worth of war In a world that turneth, turneth About a tired star Whose flaming centre burneth No longer than the s.p.a.ce Of the spent atom's race: Where conquered lands, soon, soon Lie waste as the pale moon?

What is the worth of art In a world that fast forgetteth Those who have wrung its heart With beauty that love begetteth, Whose faint flames vanish quite In that star-powdered night Where even the mighty ones Shine only as far suns?

And what is beauty worth, Sweet beauty, that persuadeth Of her immortal birth, Then, as a flower, fadeth: Or love, whose tender years End with the mourner's tears, Die, when the mourner's breath Is quiet, at last, in death?

Beauty and love are one, Even when fierce war clashes: Even when our fiery sun Hath burnt itself to ashes, And the dead planets race Unlighted through blind s.p.a.ce, Beauty will still shine there: Wherefore, I worship her.

THE HAWTHORN SPRAY

I saw a thrush light on a hawthorn spray, One moment only, spilling creamy blossom, While the bough bent beneath her speckled bosom, Bent, and recovered, and she fluttered away.

The branch was still; but, in my heart, a pain Than the thorn'd spray more cruel, stabbed me, only Remembering days in a far land and lonely When I had never hoped for summer again.

THE PAVEMENT

In bitter London's heart of stone, Under the lamplight's shielded glare.

I saw a soldier's body thrown Unto the drabs that traffic there

Pacing the pavements with slow feet: Those old pavements whose blown dust Throttles the hot air of the street, And the darkness smells of l.u.s.t.

The chaste moon, with equal glance, Looked down on the mad world, astare At those who conquered in sad France And those who perished in Leicester Square.

And in her light his lips were pale: Lips that love had moulded well: Out of the jaws of Pa.s.schendaele They had sent him to this nether h.e.l.l.

I had no stone of scorn to fling, For I know not how the wrong began-- But I had seen a hateful thing Masked in the dignity of man:

And hate and sorrow and hopeless anger Swept my heart, as the winds that sweep Angrily through the leafless hanger When winter rises from the deep....

I would that war were what men dream: A crackling fire, a cleansing flame, That it might leap the s.p.a.ce between And lap up London and its shame.

To LYDIA LOPOKOVA

HER GARLAND