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 DNIVERSirr 
 
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Marlborough 
 
 and other poems 
 
CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
 C. F. CLAY, Manager 
 
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 arofcBo: THE MAnUZEN-KABUSHIKI-KAISHA 
 
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Marlborough 
 
 and other poems 
 
 by 
 
 CHARLES HAMILTON SORLEY 
 
 LATE OF MARLBOROUGH COLLEGE 
 SOMETIME CAPTAIN IN THE SUFFOLK REGIMENT 
 
 Cambridge : 
 
 at the University Press 
 
 1916 
 
Published, January 1916 
 
 Second edition, slightly enlarged, February 1916 
 
 Reprinted, February 1916 
 
^57 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 HAD the author lived, his poems, if published at all, 
 would not have appeared without revision ; but no 
 editorial liberties have been taken with the present text. 
 Readers who find something in the book that appeals to 
 them will pardon an occasional lack of finish as well as 
 the inclusion of some verses which may seem of personal 
 interest only. 
 
 The first place in the volume has been assigned to the 
 title-poem. Some early poems are printed at the end. 
 The other contents are arranged in the order of their 
 composition, as nearly as that order can be ascertained. 
 When the date given includes the day of the month, it 
 has been taken from the author's manuscript; some of 
 the other dates are approximate. Of the undated poems, 
 XIII to XVI were received from him in the autumn of 1914, 
 XVII to XXIV in April 1915, and xxvii was found among 
 papers sent back recently from France. Many of the 
 poems appeared in The Marlbiirian, and one of them was 
 printed in The Times Literary Supplement for 28 October 
 1915. A single piece of prose, describing a night passed 
 behind the lines, has been added. 
 
 iViSiS-lGS 
 
In case any reader should ask about the author, the 
 following information may be given. He was born at 
 Old Aberdeen on 19 May 1895. From 1900 onwards his 
 home was in Cambridge. He was at Marlborough from 
 September 1908 till December 1913, when he was elected 
 to a scholarship at University College, Oxford. After 
 leaving school he spent a little more than six months in 
 Germany, returning home on the outbreak of war. He 
 was gazetted Second Lieutenant in the Seventh (Service) 
 Battahon of the Suffolk Regiment in August 1914, 
 Lieutenant in November, and Captain in the following 
 August. He was sent to France on 30 May and was 
 killed in action on 13 October 1915. "Being made perfect 
 in a Httle while, he fulfilled long years." 
 
 The letter in verse, fragments of which are given on 
 pages 73-78, was sent anonymously to an older friend 
 who, however, discovered its authorship and replied in 
 the words which, by his permission, are now printed on 
 the opposite page. 
 
 12 December 1915 
 
 Note. — The second edition contains an additional poem (xxviii) 
 which was unknown to the editor when the book was first published. 
 The punctuation of another poem has been revised. A reference in 
 the preface has been altered so as to suit the present edition. 
 
 29 January 1916 
 
From far away there comes a Voice, 
 Singing its song across the sea — 
 
 A song to make man's heart rejoice — 
 Of Marlborough and the Odyssey. 
 
 A voice that sings of Now and Then, 
 Of minstrel joys and tiny towns, 
 
 Of flowering thyme and fighting men, 
 
 Of Sparta's sands and Marlborough's Downs. 
 
 God grant, dear Voice, one day again 
 
 We see those Downs in April weather. 
 
 And snuff the breeze, and smell the rain. 
 And stand in C House Porch together! 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I Marlborough i 
 
 II Barbury Camp 5 
 
 III What you will 9 
 
 IV Rooks 12 
 
 V Rooks (II) 13 
 
 VI Stones 16 
 
 VII East Kennet Church at Evening . . . 18 
 
 VIII Autumn Dawn .21 
 
 IX Return 25 
 
 X Richard Jefferies ...... 27 
 
 XI J. B 29 
 
 XII The Other Wise Man 31 
 
 XIII The Song of the Ungirt Runners . . 40 
 
 XIV German Rain ...... 42 
 
 XV Whom therefore we ignorantly worship . 43 
 
 XVI To Poets 44 
 
 XVII " A hundred thousand million mites we go " . 46 
 
 XVIII Deus loquitur 48 
 
PAGE 
 
 XIX Two Songs from Ibsen's Dramatic Poems . 50 
 
 XX "If I have suffered pain" • • • • 53 
 
 XXI To Germany ....... 56 
 
 XXII "All the hiUs and vales along" • • • 57 
 
 XXIII Le Revenant ....... 60 
 
 XXIV Lost 64 
 
 XXV Expectans expectavi ..... 65 
 
 XXVI Two Sonnets ....... 67 
 
 XXVII A Sonnet 69 
 
 XXVIII "There is such change in all those fields" . 70 
 
 XXIX "I have not brought my Odyssey" . . 73 
 
 XXX In Memoriam S.C.W., V.C 79 
 
 XXXI Behind the Lines 80 
 
 Earlier Poems: 
 
 XXXII A Call to Action 87 
 
 XXXIII Rain 91 
 
 XXXIV A Tale of Two Careers • • • • 95 
 XXXV Peace 100 
 
 XXXVI The River 103 
 
 XXXVII The Seekers 107 
 
< 
 
I 
 
 MARLBOROUGH 
 
 CROUCHED where the open upland billows down 
 Into the valley where the river flows, 
 She is as any other country town, 
 
 That little Uves or marks or hears or knows. 
 
 And she can teach but little. She has not 
 The wonder and the surging and the roar 
 
 Of stri\dng cities. Only things forgot 
 
 That once were beautiful, but now no more. 
 
 Has she to give us. Yet to one or two 
 
 She first brought knowledge, and it was for her 
 
 To open first our eyes, until we knew 
 
 How great, immeasurably great, we were. 
 
I, who have walked along her downs in dreams, 
 And known her tenderness, and felt her might. 
 
 And sometimes by her meadows and her streams 
 Have drunk deep-storied secrets of delight. 
 
 Have had my moments there, when I have been 
 Unwittingly aware of something more. 
 
 Some beautiful aspect, that I had seen 
 With mute unspeculative eyes before; 
 
 Have had my times, when, though the earth did wear 
 Her self-same trees and grasses, I could see 
 
 The revelation that is always there. 
 
 But somehow is not always clear to me. 
 
 II 
 
 So, long ago, one halted on his way 
 
 And sent his company and cattle on; 
 
 His caravans trooped darkling far away 
 Into the night, and he was left alone. 
 
And he was left alone. And, lo, a man 
 
 There wrestled with him till the break of day. 
 
 The brook was silent and the night was wan. 
 
 And when the dawn was come, he passed away. 
 
 The sinew of the hollow of his thigh 
 
 Was shrunken, as he wrestled there alone. 
 
 The brook was silent, but the dawn was nigh. 
 
 The stranger named him Israel and was gone. 
 
 And the sun rose on Jacob; and he knew 
 
 That he was no more Jacob, but had grown 
 
 A more immortal vaster spirit, who 
 
 Had seen God face to face, and still lived on. 
 
 The plain that seemed to stretch away to God, 
 
 The brook that saw and heard and knew no fear, 
 
 Were now the self-same soul as he who stood 
 And waited for his brother to draw near. 
 
For God had wrestled with him, and was gone. 
 
 He looked around, and only God remained. 
 The dawn, the desert, he and God were one. 
 
 — And Esau came to meet him, travel-stained. 
 
 Ill 
 
 So, there, when sunset made the downs look new. 
 And earth gave up her colours to the sky, 
 
 And far away the little city grew 
 
 Half into sight, new-visioned was my eye. 
 
 I, who have lived, and trod her lovely earth. 
 
 Raced with her winds and listened to her birds, 
 
 Have cared but little for their worldly worth 
 Nor sought to put my passion into words. 
 
 But now it's different; and I have no rest 
 
 Because my hand must search, dissect and spell 
 
 The beauty that is better not expressed, 
 
 The thing that all can feel, but none can tell. 
 
 I March 1914 
 
II 
 
 BARBURY CAMP 
 
 WE burrowed night and day with tools of lead, 
 Heaped the bank up and cast it in a ring 
 And hurled the earth above. And Caesar said, 
 "Why, it is excellent. I like the thing." 
 We, who are dead. 
 Made it, and wrought, and Caesar liked the thing. 
 
 And here we strove, and here we felt each vein 
 Ice-bound, each limb fast-frozen, all night long. 
 And here we held communion with the rain 
 That lashed us into manhood with its thong. 
 Cleansing through pain. 
 And the wind visited us and made us strong. 
 
Up from around us, numbers without name, 
 Strong men and naked, vast, on either hand 
 Pressing us in, they came. And the wind came 
 And bitter rain, turning grey all the land. 
 That was our game. 
 To fight with men and storms, and it was grand. 
 
 For many days we fought them, and our sweat 
 Watered the grass, making it spring up green, 
 Blooming for us. And, if the wind was wet, 
 Our blood wetted the wind, making it keen 
 With the hatred 
 And wrath and courage that our blood had been. 
 
 So, fighting men and winds and tempests, hot 
 
 With joy and hate and battle-lust, we fell 
 
 Where we fought. And God said, "Killed at last then? 
 
 What? 
 Ye that are too strong for heaven, too clean for hell, 
 (God said) stir not. 
 This be your heaven, or, if ye will, your hell." 
 
So again we fight and wrestle, and again 
 
 Hurl the earth up and cast it in a ring. 
 
 But when the wind comes up, driving the rain 
 
 (Each rain-drop a fiery steed), and the mists rolUng 
 
 Up from the plain, 
 
 This wild procession, this impetuous thing. 
 
 Hold us amazed. We mount the wind-cars, then 
 
 Whip up the steeds and drive through all the world. 
 
 Searching to find somewhere some brethren. 
 
 Sons of the winds and waters of the world. 
 
 We, who were men, 
 
 Have sought, and found no men in all this world. 
 
 Wind, that has blown here always ceaselessly. 
 
 Bringing, if any man can understand, 
 
 Might to the mighty, freedom to the free; 
 
 Wind, that has caught us, cleansed us, made us grand. 
 
 Wind that is we 
 
 (We that were men) — make men in all this land. 
 
That so may live and wrestle and hate that when 
 They fall at last exultant, as we fell, 
 And come to God, God may say, "Do you come then 
 Mildly enquiring, is it heaven or hell? 
 Why! Ye were men! 
 
 Back to your winds and rains. Be these your heaven and 
 hell ! " 
 
 24 March 191 3 
 
Ill 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL 
 
 OCOME and see, it's such a sight, 
 So many boys all doing right : 
 To see them underneath the yoke. 
 Blindfolded by the elder folk, 
 Move at a most impressive rate 
 Along the way that is called straight. 
 O, it is comforting to know 
 They're in the way they ought to go. 
 But don't you think it's far more gay 
 To see them slowly leave the way 
 And limp and loose themselves and fall? 
 O, that's the nicest thing of all. 
 
I love to see this sight, for then 
 I know they are becoming men, 
 And they are tiring of the shrine 
 Where things are really not divine. 
 
 I do not know if it seems brave 
 
 The youthful spirit to enslave, 
 
 And hedge about, lest it should grow. 
 
 I don't know if it's better so 
 
 In the long end. I only know 
 
 That when I have a son of mine, 
 
 He shan't be made to droop and pine. 
 
 Bound down and forced by rule and rod 
 
 To serve a God who is no God. 
 
 But I'll put custom on the shelf 
 
 And make him find his God himself. 
 
 10 
 
Perhaps he'll find him in a tree, 
 Some hollow trunk, where you can see. 
 Perhaps the daisies in the sod 
 Will open out and show him God. 
 Or will he meet him in the roar 
 Of breakers as they beat the shore? 
 Or in the spiky stars that shine? 
 Or in the rain (where I found mine)? 
 Or in the city's giant moan? 
 
 — A God who will be all his own. 
 To whom he can address a prayer 
 And love him, for he is so fair.. 
 x\nd see with ej^es that are not dim 
 And build a temple meet for him. 
 
 June 1913 
 
 II 
 
IV 
 ROOKS 
 
 THERE, where the rusty iron lies, 
 The rooks are cawing all the day. 
 Perhaps no man, until he dies. 
 
 Will understand them, what they say. 
 
 The evening makes the sky like clay. 
 
 The slow wind waits for night to rise. 
 The world is half-content. But they 
 
 Still trouble all the trees with cries, 
 That know, and cannot put away, 
 
 The yearning to the soul that flies 
 
 From day to night, from night to day. 
 
 21 June 1913 
 
 12 
 
ROOKS (II) 
 
 THERE is such cry in all these birds. 
 More than can ever be express'd; 
 If I should put it into words, 
 
 You would agree it were not best 
 To wake such wonder from its rest. 
 
 But since to-night the world is still 
 And only they and I astir. 
 
 We are united, will to wiU, 
 
 By bondage tighter, tenderer 
 Than any lovers ever were. 
 
 13 
 
And if, of too much labouring, 
 
 All that I see around should die 
 
 (There is such sleep in each green thing, 
 Such weariness in all the sky), 
 We would live on, these birds and I. 
 
 Yet how? since everything must pass 
 At evening with the sinking sun. 
 
 And Christ is gone, and Barabbas, 
 
 Judas and Jesus, gone, clean gone. 
 Then how shall I live on? 
 
 Yet surely, Judas must have heard 
 Amidst his torments the long cry 
 
 Of some lone Israehtish bird. 
 
 And on it, ere he went to die. 
 Thrown all his spirit's agony. 
 
 14 
 
And that immortal cry which welled 
 For Judas, ever afterwards 
 
 Passion on passion still has swelled 
 
 And sweetened, till to-night these birds 
 Will take my words, will take my words, 
 
 And wrapping them in music meet 
 
 Will sing their spirit through the sky, 
 
 Strange and unsatisfied and sweet — 
 
 That, when stock-dead am I, am I, 
 O, these will never die! 
 
 July 191 3 
 
 15 
 
VI 
 STONES 
 
 THIS field is almost white with stones 
 That cumber all its thirsty crust. 
 And underneath, I know, are bones. 
 And all around is death and dust. 
 
 And if you love a livelier hue — 
 
 O, if you love the youth of year, 
 
 When all is clean and green and new, 
 Depart. There is no summer here. 
 
 Albeit, to me there lingers yet 
 In this forbidding stony dress 
 
 The impotent and dim regret 
 
 For some forgotten restlessness. 
 
 i6 
 
Dumb, imperceptibly astir, 
 
 These relics of an ancient race, 
 
 These men, in whom the dead bones were. 
 Still fortifying their resting-place. 
 
 Their field of life was white with stones; 
 
 Good fruit to earth they never brought. 
 O, in these bleached and buried bones 
 
 Was neither love nor faith nor thought. 
 
 But like the wind in this bleak place, 
 
 Bitter and bleak and sharp thej^ grew. 
 
 And bitterly they ran their race, 
 A brutal, bad, unkindly crew: 
 
 Souls like the dry earth, hearts like stone. 
 Brains like that barren bramble-tree: 
 
 Stern, sterile, senseless, mute, unknown — 
 But bold, O, bolder far than we! 
 
 14 July 1 91 3 
 
 17 
 
VII 
 
 EAST KENNET CHURCH AT EVENING 
 
 T STOOD amongst the corn, and watched 
 -*■ The evening coming down. 
 The rising vale was like a queen, 
 And the dim church her crown. 
 
 Crown -like it stood against the hills. 
 
 Its form was passing fair. 
 I almost saw the tribes go up 
 
 To offer incense there. 
 
 And far below the long vale stretched. 
 
 As a sleeper she did seem 
 That after some brief restlessness 
 
 Has now begun to dream. 
 
 i8 
 
(All day the wakefulness of men, 
 Their lives and labours brief. 
 
 Have broken her long troubled sleep. 
 Now, evening brings relief.) 
 
 There was no motion there, nor sound. 
 
 She did not seem to rise. 
 Yet was she wrapping herself in 
 
 Her grey of night-disguise. 
 
 For now no church nor tree nor fold 
 
 Was visible to me: 
 Only that fading into one 
 
 Which God must sometimes see. 
 
 No coloured glory streaked the sky 
 To mark the sinking sun. 
 
 There was no redness in the west 
 To teU that day was done. 
 
 19 
 
Only, the greyness of the eve 
 Grew fuller than before. 
 
 And, in its fulness, it made one 
 Of what had once been more. 
 
 There was much beauty in that sight 
 That man must not long see. 
 
 God dropped the kindly veil of night 
 Between its end and me. 
 
 24 July 191 3 
 
 20 
 
VIII 
 AUTUMN DAWN 
 
 AND this is morning. Would you think 
 That this was the morning, when the land 
 Is full of heavy eyes that blink 
 Half-opened, and the tall trees stand 
 Too tired to shake away the drops 
 Of passing night that cling around 
 Their branches and weigh down their tops: 
 And the grey sky leans on the ground? 
 The thrush sings once or twice, but stops 
 Affrighted by the silent sound. 
 The sheep, scarce mo\ang, munches, moans. 
 The slow herd mumbles, thick with phlegm. 
 The grey road-mender, hacking stones. 
 Is now become as one of them. 
 
 21 
 
Old mother Earth has rubbed her eyes 
 And stayed, so senseless, lying down. 
 Old mother is too tired to rise 
 And lay aside her grey nightgown. 
 And come with singing and with strength 
 In loud exuberance of day. 
 Swift-darting. She is tired at length, 
 Done up, past bearing, you would say. 
 She'll come no more in lust of strife, 
 In hedges' leap, and wild birds' cries. 
 In winds that cut you like a knife. 
 In days of laughter and swift skies, 
 That palpably pulsate with life. 
 With life that kills, with life that dies. 
 But in a morning such as this 
 Is neither life nor death to see, 
 Only that state which some call bliss. 
 Grey hopeless immortality. 
 
 22 
 
Earth is at length bedrid. She is 
 Supinest of the things that be: 
 And stilly, heavy with long years, 
 Brings forth such days in dumb regret, 
 Immortal days, that rise in tears. 
 And cannot, though they strive to, set. 
 
 ******* 
 The mists do move. The v/ind takes breath. 
 The sun appeareth over there, 
 
 And with red fingers hasteneth 
 
 From Earth's grey bed the clothes to tear. 
 
 And strike the heavy mist's dank tent. 
 
 And Earth uprises with a sigh. 
 
 She is astir. She is not spent. 
 
 And yet she lives and yet can die. 
 
 The grey road-mender from the ditch 
 
 Looks up. He has not looked before. 
 
 The stunted tree sways like the witch 
 
 It was: 'tis living witch once more. 
 
 23 
 
The winds are washen. In the deep 
 Dew of the morn they've washed. The skies 
 Are changing dress. The clumsy sheep 
 Bound, and earth's many bosoms rise, 
 And earth's green tresses spring and leap 
 About her brow. The earth has eyes, 
 The earth has voice, the earth has breath, 
 As o'er the land and through the air. 
 With winged sandals. Life and Death 
 Speed hand in hand — that winsome pair! 
 
 1 6 September 191 3 
 
 24 
 
IX 
 
 RETURN 
 
 STILL stand the downs so wise and wide? 
 Still shake the trees their tresses grey? 
 I thought their beauty might have died 
 Since I had been away. 
 
 I might have known the things I love, 
 The winds, the flocking birds' full cry, 
 
 The trees that toss, the downs that move. 
 Were longer things than I. 
 
 Lo, earth that bows before the wind. 
 With wild green children overgrown. 
 
 And all her bosoms, many-whinned, 
 Receive me as their own. 
 
 25 
 
The birds are hushed and fled: the cows 
 Have ceased at last to make long moan. 
 
 They only think to browse and browse 
 Until the night is grown. 
 
 The wind is stiller than it was, 
 
 And dumbness holds the closing day. 
 
 The earth says not a word, because 
 It has no word to say. 
 
 The dear soft grasses under foot 
 Are silent to the listening ear. 
 
 Yet beauty never can be mute, 
 And some will always hear. 
 
 1 8 September 19 13 
 
 26 
 
X 
 
 RICHARD JEFFERIES 
 
 (liddington castle) 
 
 I SEE the vision of the Vale 
 Rise teeming to the rampart Down, 
 The fields and, far below, the pale 
 Red-roofedness of Swindon town. 
 
 But though I see all things remote, 
 I cannot see them with the eyes 
 
 With which ere now the man from Coate 
 
 Looked down and wondered and was wise. 
 
 27 
 
He knew the healing balm of night, 
 
 The strong and sweeping joy of day. 
 
 The sensible and dear delight 
 Of life, the pity of decay. 
 
 And many wondrous words he wrote, 
 
 And something good to man he showed. 
 
 About the entering in of Coate, 
 
 There, on the dusty Swindon road. 
 
 19 September 191 3 
 
 28 
 
XI 
 
 J. B. 
 
 ^T^HERE'S still a horse on Granham hill, 
 ■^ And still the Kennet moves, and still 
 Four Miler sways and is not still. 
 But where is her interpreter? 
 
 The downs are blown into dismay, 
 The stunted trees seem all astray, 
 Looking for someone clad in grey 
 And carrying a golf-club thing; 
 
 Who, them when he had lived among, 
 Gave them what they desired, a tongue. 
 Their words he gave them to be sung 
 
 Perhaps were few, but they were true. 
 
 29 
 
The trees, the downs, on either hand, 
 Still stand, as he said they would stand. 
 But look, the rain in all the land 
 
 Makes all things dim with tears of him. 
 
 And recently the Kennet croons. 
 And winds are playing widowed tunes. 
 — He has not left our "toun o' touns," 
 But taken it away with him ! 
 
 October 19 13 
 
 30 
 
XII 
 
 THE OTHER WISE MAN 
 
 (Scene : A valley with a wood on one side and a road running 
 up to a distant hill : as it might he, the valley to the east 
 of West Woods, that runs up to Oare Hill, only much 
 larger. Time: Autumn. Four wise men are marching 
 hillward along the road.) 
 
 I 
 
 One Wise Man 
 
 wonder where the valley ends? 
 On, comrades, on. 
 
 Another Wise Man 
 The rain-red road, 
 Still shining sinuously, bends 
 Leagues upwards. 
 
 31 
 
A Third Wise Man 
 To the hill, friends, 
 To seek the star that once has glowed 
 Before us; turning not to right 
 Nor left, nor backward once looking. 
 Till we have clomb — and with the night 
 We see the King. 
 
 All the Wise Men 
 The King! The King! 
 
 The Third Wise Man 
 Long is the road but — 
 
 A Fourth Wise Man 
 Brother, see, 
 There, to the left, a very aisle 
 Composed of every sort of tree — 
 
 The First Wise Man 
 Still onward — 
 
 32 
 
The Fourth Wise Man 
 Oak and beech and birch, 
 Like a church, but homeher than church. 
 The black trunks for its walls of tile; 
 Its roof, old leaves; its floor, beech nuts; 
 The squirrels its congregation — 
 
 The Second Wise Man 
 
 Tuts! 
 For still we journey — 
 
 The Fourth Wise Man 
 But the sun weaves 
 A water-web across the grass, 
 Binding their tops. You must not pass 
 The water cobweb. 
 
 The Third Wise Man 
 Hush! I say. 
 Onward and upward till the day — 
 
 33 
 
The Fourth Wise Man 
 
 Brother, that tree has crimson leaves. 
 
 You'll never see its like again. 
 
 Don't miss it. Look, it's bright with rain— 
 
 The First Wise Man 
 O prating tongue. On, on. 
 
 The Fourth Wise Man 
 
 And there 
 A toad-stool, nay, a gobhn stool. 
 No toad sat on a thing so fair. 
 Wait, while I pluck— and there's— and here's 
 A whole ring... what?... berries? 
 
 {The Fourth Wise Man drops behind, botanizing. 
 
 34 
 
The Wisest of the remaining Three Wise Men 
 
 O fool! 
 Fool, fallen in this vale of tears. 
 His hand had touched the plough: his eyes 
 Looked back: no more with us, his peers, 
 He'll climb the hill and front the skies 
 And see the Star, the King, the Prize. 
 But we, the seekers, we who see 
 Beyond the mists of transiency — 
 Our feet down in the valley still 
 Are set, our eyes are on the hill. 
 Last night the star of God has shone. 
 And so we journey, up and on, 
 With courage clad, with swiftness shod. 
 All thoughts of earth behind us cast. 
 Until we see the lights of God, 
 — And what \\ill be the crown at last? 
 
 35 3-^ 
 
All Three Wise Men 
 On, on. 
 
 {They pass on : it is already evening when the Other Wise 
 Man limps along the road, still botanizing.) 
 
 The Other Wise Man 
 A vale of tears, they said! 
 A valley made of woes and fears, 
 To be passed by with muffled head 
 Quickly. I have not seen the tears. 
 Unless they take the rain for tears, 
 And certainly the place is wet. 
 Rain laden leaves are ever licking 
 Your cheeks and hands... I can't get on. 
 There's a toad-stool that wants picking. 
 There, just there, a httle up. 
 What strange things to look upon 
 With pink hood and orange cup! 
 
 36 
 
And there are acorns, yellow — green... 
 
 They said the King was at the end. 
 
 They must have been 
 
 Wrong. For here, here, I intend 
 
 To search for him, for surely here 
 
 Are all the wares of the old year. 
 
 And all the beauty and bright prize. 
 
 And all God's colours meetly showed, 
 
 Green for the grass, blue for the skies, 
 
 Red for the rain upon the road ; 
 
 And anything you like for trees. 
 
 But chiefly yellow brown and gold, 
 
 Because the year is growing old 
 
 And loves to paint her children these. 
 
 I tried to follow... but, what do you think? 
 
 The mushrooms here are pink! 
 
 And there's old clover with black polls. 
 
 Black-headed clover, black as coals. 
 
 And toad-stools, sleek as ink! 
 
 37 
 
And there are such heaps of Httle turns 
 
 Off the road, wet with old rain: 
 
 Each little vegetable lane 
 
 Of moss and old decaying ferns. 
 
 Beautiful in decay, 
 
 Snatching a beauty from whatever may 
 
 Be their lot, dark-red and luscious: till there pass'd 
 
 Over the many-coloured earth a grey 
 
 Film. It was evening coming down at last. 
 
 And all things hid their faces, covering up 
 
 Their peak or hood or bonnet or bright cup 
 
 In greyness, and the beauty faded fast, 
 
 With all the many-coloured coat of day. 
 
 Then I looked up, and lo ! the sunset sky 
 
 Had taken the beauty from the autumn earth. 
 
 Such colour, O such colour, could not die. 
 
 The trees stood black against such revelry 
 
 Of lemon-gold and purple and crimson dye. 
 
 And even as the trees, so I 
 
 38 
 
Stood still and worshipped, though by evening's birth 
 
 I should have capped the hills and seen the King. 
 
 The King? The King? 
 
 I must be miles away from my journey's end; 
 
 The others must be now nearing 
 
 The summit, glad. By now they wend 
 
 Their way far, far, ahead, no doubt. 
 
 I wonder if they've reached the end. 
 
 If they have, I have not heard them shout. 
 
 I December 191 3 
 
 39 
 
XIII 
 
 THE SONG OF THE UNGIRT RUNNERS 
 
 WE swing ungirded hips, 
 And lightened are our eyes. 
 The rain is on our lips, 
 We do not run for prize. 
 We know not whom we trust 
 Nor whitherward we fare. 
 But we run because we must 
 Through the great wide air. 
 
 The waters of the seas 
 Are troubled as by storm. 
 The tempest strips the trees 
 And does not leave them warm. 
 Does the tearing tempest pause? 
 Do the tree-tops ask it why? 
 So we run without a cause 
 'Neath the big bare sky. 
 
 40 
 
The rain is on our lips, 
 
 We do not run for prize. 
 
 But the storm the water whips 
 
 And the wave howls to the skies. 
 
 The winds arise and strike it 
 
 And scatter it like sand, 
 
 And we run because we like it 
 
 Through the broad bright land. 
 
 4t , 
 
XIV 
 GERMAN RAIN 
 
 THE heat came down and sapped away my powers. 
 The laden heat came down and drowned my brain. 
 Till through the weight of overcoming hours 
 I felt the rain. 
 
 Then suddenly I saw what more to see 
 
 I never thought: old things renewed, retrieved. 
 The rain that fell in England fell on me. 
 And I believed. 
 
 42 
 
XV 
 
 WHOM THEREFORE WE IGNORANTLY WORSHIP 
 
 THESE things are silent. Though it may be told 
 Of luminous deeds that lighten land and sea. 
 Strong sounding actions with broad minstrelsy 
 Of praise, strange hazards and adventures bold. 
 We hold to the old things that grow not old: 
 Blind, patient, hungry, hopeless (without fee 
 Of all our hunger and unhope are we), 
 To the first ultimate instinct, to God we hold. 
 
 They flicker, glitter, flicker. But we bide, 
 We, the blind weavers of an intense fate, 
 Asking but this — that we may be denied: 
 Desiring only desire insatiate, 
 Unheard, unnamed, unnoticed, crucified 
 To our unutterable faith, we wait. 
 
 43 
 
XVI 
 
 TO POETS 
 
 WE are the homeless, even as you. 
 Who hope and never can begin. 
 Our hearts are wounded through and through 
 Like yours, but our hearts bleed within.' 
 We too make music, but our tones 
 'Scape not the barrier of our bones. 
 
 We have no comeliness like you. 
 We toil, unlovely, and we spin. 
 We start, return : we wind, undo : 
 We hope, we err, we strive, we sin. 
 We love : your love's not greater, but 
 The lips of our love's might stay shut. 
 
 44 
 
We have the evil spirits too 
 
 That shake our soul with battle-din. 
 
 But we have an eviller spirit than you, 
 
 We have a dumb spirit within : 
 
 The exceeding bitter agony 
 
 But not the exceeding bitter cry. 
 
 45 
 
XVII 
 
 A HUNDRED thousand million mites we go 
 Wheeling and tacking o'er the eternal plain, 
 Some black with death — and some are white with woe. 
 Who sent us forth? Who takes us home again? 
 
 And there is sound of hymns of praise — to whom? 
 And curses — on whom curses ?^ — snap the air. 
 And there is hope goes hand in hand with gloom. 
 And blood and indignation and despair. 
 
 And there is murmuring of the multitude 
 And blindness and great bhndness, until some 
 Step forth and challenge blind Vicissitude 
 Who tramples on them: so that fewer come. 
 
 46 
 
And nations, ankle-deep in love or hate, 
 Throw darts or kisses all the unwitting hour 
 Beside the ominous unseen tide of fate; 
 And there is emptiness and drink and power. 
 
 And some are mounted on swift steeds of thought 
 And some drag sluggish feet of stable toil. 
 Yet all, as though they furiously sought, 
 Twist turn and tussle, close and cling and coil. 
 
 A hundred thousand million mites we sway 
 Writhing and tossing on the eternal plain, 
 Some black with death — but most are bright with Day! 
 Who sent us forth? Who brings us home again? 
 
 47 
 
XVIII 
 DEUS LOQUITUR 
 
 THAT'S what I am: a thing of no desire. 
 With no path to discover and no plea 
 To offer up, so be my altar fire 
 May burn before the hearth continuously, 
 To be 
 For wayward men a steadfast light to see. 
 
 They know me in the morning of their days. 
 
 But ere noontide forsake me, to discern 
 
 New lore and hear new riddles. But moonrays 
 
 Bring them back footsore, humble, bent, a-burn 
 
 To turn 
 
 And warm them by my fire which they did spurn. 
 
 48 
 
They flock together hke tired birds. "We sought 
 
 Full many stars in many skies to see. 
 
 But ever knowledge disappointment brought. 
 
 Thy light alone, Lord, burneth steadfastly." 
 
 Ah me! 
 
 Then it is I who fain would wayward be. 
 
 49 
 
XIX 
 TWO SONGS FROM IBSEN'S DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 I BRAND 
 
 ^T^HOU trod'st the shifting sand path where man's race is. 
 
 -■■ The print of thy soft sandals is still clear. 
 I too have trodden it those prints a-near, 
 But the sea washes out my tired foot-traces. 
 And all that thou hast healed and holpen here 
 I yearned to heal and help and wipe the tear 
 Away. But still I trod unpeopled spaces. 
 I had no twelve to follow my pure paces. 
 For I had thy misgivings and thy fear, 
 Thy crown of scorn, thy suffering's sharp spear. 
 Thy hopes, thy longings — only not thy dear 
 Love (for my crying love would no man hear), 
 Thy will to love, but not thy love's sweet graces. 
 That deep firm foothold which no sea erases. 
 I think that thou wast I in bygone places 
 In an intense eliminated year. 
 Now born again in days that are more drear 
 I wander unfulfilled: and see strange faces. 
 
 50 
 
II PEER GYNT 
 
 WHEN he was young and beautiful and bold 
 We hated him, for he was very strong. 
 But when he came back home again, quite old, 
 And wounded too, we could not hate him long. 
 
 For kingliness and conquest pranced he forth 
 Like some high-stepping charger bright with foam. 
 And south he strode and east and west and north 
 With need of crowns and never need of home. 
 
 Enraged we heard high tidings of his strength 
 And cursed his long forgetfulness. We swore 
 That should he come back home some eve at length. 
 We would deny him, we would bar the door! 
 
 51 4-2 
 
And then he came. The sound of those tired feet! 
 And all our home and all our hearts are his, 
 Where bitterness, grown weary, turns to sweet, 
 And envy, purged by longing, pity is. 
 
 And pillows rest beneath the withering cheek, 
 And hands are laid the battered brows above, 
 And he whom we had hated, waxen weak, 
 First in his weakness learns a little love. 
 
 52 
 
XX 
 
 TF I have suffered pain 
 -*• It is because I would. 
 I willed it. 'Tis no good 
 To murmur or complain. 
 I have not served the law 
 That keeps the earth so fair 
 And gives her clothes to wear, 
 Raiment of joy and awe. 
 
 For all that bow to bless 
 That law shall sure abide. 
 But man shall not abide. 
 And hence his gloriousness. 
 Lo, evening earth doth lie 
 All-beauteous and all peace. 
 Man only does not cease 
 From striving and from cry. 
 
 53 
 
Sun sets in peace: and soon 
 The moon will shower her peace. 
 O law-abiding moon, 
 You hold your peace in fee! 
 Man, leastways, will not be 
 Down-bounden to these laws. 
 Man's spirit sees no cause 
 To serve such laws as these. 
 
 There yet are many seas 
 For man to wander in. 
 He yet must find out sin, 
 If aught of pleasance there 
 Remain for him to store. 
 His rovings to increase. 
 In quest of many a shore 
 Forbidden still to fare. 
 
 54 
 
Peace sleeps the earth upon. 
 And sweet peace on the hill. 
 The waves that whimper still 
 At their long law-serving 
 (O flowing sad complaint!) 
 Come on and are back drawn. 
 Man only owns no king, 
 Man only is not faint. 
 
 You see, the earth is bound. 
 
 You see, the man is free. 
 
 For glorious liberty 
 
 He suffers and would die. 
 
 Grudge not then suffering 
 
 Or chastisemental cry. 
 
 O let his pain abound. 
 
 Earth's truant and earth's king! 
 
 55 
 
XXI 
 
 TO GERMANY 
 
 'VT'OU are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, 
 ■*■ And no man claimed the conquest of your land. 
 But gropers both through fields of thought confined 
 We stumble and we do not understand. 
 You only saw your future bigly planned, 
 And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, 
 And in each other's dearest ways we stand. 
 And hiss and hate. And the Hind fight the bhnd. 
 
 When it is peace, then we may view again 
 With new-won eyes each other's truer form 
 And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm 
 We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, 
 When it is peace. But until peace, the storm 
 The darkness and the thunder and the rain. 
 
 56 
 
XXII 
 
 ALL the hills and vales along 
 Earth is bursting into song, 
 And the singers are the chaps 
 Who are going to die perhaps. 
 O sing, marching men, 
 Till the valleys ring again. 
 Give your gladness to earth's keeping, 
 So be glad, when you are sleeping. 
 
 Cast away regret and rue, 
 Think what you are marching to. 
 Little live, great pass. 
 Jesus Christ and Barabbas 
 Were found the same day. 
 This died, that went his way. 
 
 So sing with joyful breath. 
 
 For why, you are going to death. 
 
 Teeming earth will surely store 
 
 All the gladness that you pour. 
 
 57 
 
Earth that never doubts nor fears, 
 Earth that knows of death, not tears, 
 Earth that bore with joyful ease 
 Hemlock for Socrates, 
 Earth that blossomed and was glad 
 'Neath the cross that Christ had, 
 Shall rejoice and blossom too 
 When the bullet reaches you. 
 
 Wherefore, men marching 
 
 On the road to death, sing! 
 
 Pour your gladness on earth's head, 
 
 So be merry, so be dead. 
 
 58 
 
From the hills and valleys earth 
 
 Shouts back the sound of mirth, 
 
 Tramp of feet and lilt of song 
 
 Ringing all the road along. 
 
 All the music of their going, 
 
 Ringing swinging glad song-throwing. 
 
 Earth will echo still, when foot 
 
 Lies numb and voice mute. 
 On, marching men, on 
 To the gates of death with song. 
 Sow your gladness for earth's reaping. 
 So you may be glad, though sleeping. 
 Strew your gladness on earth's bed. 
 So be merry, so be dead. 
 
 59 
 
XXIII 
 
 LE REVENANT 
 
 TTE trod the oft-remembered lane 
 ^ ■*■ (Now smaller-seeming than before 
 When first he left his father's door 
 For newer things), but still quite plain 
 
 (Though half-benighted now) upstood 
 Old landmarks, ghosts across the lane 
 That brought the Bygone back again: 
 Shorn haystacks and the rooky wood; 
 
 60 
 
The guide post, too, which once he clomb 
 To read the figures: fourteen miles 
 To Swindon, four to Clinton Stiles, 
 And only half a mile to home : 
 
 And far away the one homestead, where — 
 
 Behind the day now not quite set 
 
 So that he saw in silhouette 
 
 Its chimneys still stand black and bare — 
 
 He noticed that the trees were not 
 So big as when he journeyed last 
 That way. For greatly now he passed 
 Striding above the hedges, hot 
 
 With hopings, as he passed by where 
 A lamp before him glanced and stayed 
 Across his path, so that his shade 
 Seemed like a giant's moving there. 
 
 6i 
 
The dullness of the sunken sun 
 He marked not, nor how dark it grew, 
 Nor that strange flapping bird that flew 
 Above: he thought but of the One.... 
 
 He topped the crest and crossed the fence, 
 Noticed the garden that it grew 
 As erst, noticed the hen-house too 
 (The kennel had been altered since). 
 
 It seemed so unchanged and so still. 
 (Could it but be the past arisen 
 For one short night from out of prison?) 
 He reached the big-bowed window-sill. 
 
 Lifted the window sash with care, 
 Then, gaily throwing aside the blind. 
 Shouted. It was a shock to find 
 That he was not remembered there. 
 
 62 
 
At once he felt not all his pain, 
 
 But murmuringly apologised, 
 
 Turned, once more sought the undersized 
 
 Blown trees, and the long lanky lane, 
 
 Wondering and pondering on, past where 
 A lamp before him glanced and stayed 
 Across his path, so that his shade 
 Seemed like a giant's moving there. 
 
 63 
 
XXIV 
 
 LOST 
 
 A CROSS my past imaginings 
 -*^^ Has dropped a blindness silent and slow. 
 My eye is bent on other things 
 
 Than those it once did see and know. 
 
 I may not think on those dear lands 
 
 (O far away and long ago !) 
 Where the old battered signpost stands 
 
 And silently the four roads go 
 
 East, west, south and north, 
 
 And the cold winter winds do blow. 
 And what the evening will bring forth 
 
 Is not for me nor you to know. 
 
 64 
 
XXV 
 
 EXPECTANS EXPECTAVI 
 
 FROM morn to midnight, all day through, 
 I laugh and play as others do, 
 I sin and chatter, just the same 
 As others with a different name. 
 
 And all year long upon the stage 
 I dance and tumble and do rage 
 So vehemently, I scarcely see 
 The inner and eternal me. 
 
 I have a temple I do not 
 Visit, a heart I have forgot, 
 A self that I have never met, 
 A secret shrine — and yet, and yet 
 
 65 
 
This sanctuary of my soul 
 Unwitting I keep white and whole 
 Unlatched and lit, if Thou should'st care 
 To enter or to tarry there. 
 
 With parted lips and outstretched hands 
 And listening ears Thy servant stands. 
 Call Thou early, call Thou late. 
 To Thy great service dedicate. 
 
 May 1915 
 
 66 
 
XXVI 
 TWO SONNETS 
 
 AINTS have adored the lofty soul of you. 
 ^^ Poets have whitened at your high renown. 
 We stand among the many millions who 
 
 Do hourly wait to pass your pathway down. 
 
 You, so familiar, once were strange: we tried 
 
 To live as of your presence unaware. 
 
 But now in every road on every side 
 
 We see j^our straight and steadfast signpost there. 
 
 1 think it like that signpost in my land 
 Hoary and tall, which pointed me to go 
 Upward, into the hills, on the right hand. 
 
 Where the mists swim and the wdnds shriek and blow, 
 A homeless land and friendless, but a land 
 I did not know and that I wished to know. 
 
 67 5-2 
 
II 
 
 Such, such is Death : no triumph : no defeat : 
 Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean, 
 A merciful putting away of what has been. 
 
 And this we know: Death is not Life effete, 
 Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen 
 So marvellous things know well the end not yet. 
 
 Victor and vanquished are a-one in death : 
 Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say 
 "Come, what was your record when you drew breath? 
 But a big blot has hid each yesterday 
 So poor, so manifestly incomplete. 
 And your bright Promise, withered long and sped. 
 Is touched, stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet 
 And blossoms and is you, when you are dead. 
 
 12 June 1915 
 
 68 
 
XXVII 
 
 WHEN you see millions of the mouthless dead 
 Across your dreams in pale battalions go, 
 Say not soft things as other men have said, 
 That you'll remember. For you need not so. 
 Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know 
 It is not curses heaped on each gashed head? 
 Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow. 
 Nor honour. It is easy to be dead. 
 Say only this, "They are dead." Then add thereto, 
 "Yet many a better one has died before." 
 Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you 
 Perceive one face that you loved heretofore, 
 It is a spook. None wears the face you knew. 
 Great death has made all his for evermore. 
 
 69 
 
XXVIII 
 
 ^TpHERE is such change in all those fields, 
 
 -*■ Such motion rhythmic, ordered, free. 
 Where ever-glancing summer yields 
 Birth, fragrance, sunlight, immanency, 
 To make us view our rights of birth. 
 What shall we do? How shall we die? 
 We, captives of a roaming earth. 
 Mid shades that life and light deny. 
 Blank summer's surfeit heaves in mist; 
 Dumb earth basks dewy- washed ; while still 
 We whom Intelligence has kissed 
 Do make us shacldes of our will. 
 And yet I know in each loud brain. 
 Round-clamped with laws and learning so. 
 Is madness more and lust of strain 
 Than earth's jerked godlings e'er can know. 
 
 70 
 
The false Delilah of our brain 
 
 Has set us round the millstone going. 
 
 O lust of roving! lust of pain! 
 
 Our hair will not be long in growing. 
 
 Like blinded Samson round we go. 
 
 We hear the grindstone groan and cry. 
 
 Yet we are kings, we know, we know. 
 
 What shall we do? How shall we die? 
 
 Take but our pauper's gift of birth, 
 
 let us from the grindstone free! 
 
 And tread the maddening gladdening earth 
 
 In strength close-braced with purity. 
 
 The earth is old; we ever new. 
 
 Our eyes should see no other sense 
 
 Than this, eternally to do — 
 
 Our joy, our task, our recompense; 
 
 Up unexplored mountains move. 
 
 Track tireless through great wastes afar. 
 
 Nor slumber in the arms of love. 
 
 Nor tremble on the brink of war; 
 
 71 
 
Make Beauty and make Rest give place, 
 Mock Prudence loud — and she is gone. 
 Smite Satisfaction on the face 
 And tread the ghost of Ease upon. 
 Light-lipped and singing press we hard 
 Over old earth which now is worn, 
 Triumphant, buffetted and scarred. 
 By billows howled at, tempest-torn, 
 Toward blue horizons far away 
 (Which do not give the rest we need. 
 But some long strife, more than this play. 
 Some task that will be stern indeed) — 
 We ever new, we ever young. 
 We happy creatures of a day! 
 What will the gods say, seeing us strung 
 As nobly and as taut as they? 
 
 72 
 
XXIX 
 
 I HAVE not brought my Odyssey 
 With me here across the sea; 
 But you'll remember, when I say 
 How, when they went down Sparta way, 
 To sandy Sparta, long ere dawn 
 Horses were harnessed, rations drawn, 
 Equipment polished sparkling bright. 
 And breakfasts swallowed (as the white 
 Of Eastern heavens turned to gold) — 
 The dogs barked, swift farewells were told. 
 The sun springs up, the horses neigh. 
 Crackles the whip thrice— then away! 
 From sun-go-up to sun-go-down 
 All day across the sandy down 
 The gallant horses galloped, till 
 The wind across the downs more chill 
 
 73 
 
Blew, the sun sank and all the road 
 Was darkened, that it only showed 
 Right at the end the town's red light 
 And twilight glimmering into night. 
 
 The horses never slackened till 
 
 They reached the doorway and stood still. 
 
 Then came the knock, the unlading; then 
 
 The honey-sweet converse of men. 
 
 The splendid bath, the change of dress. 
 
 Then — O the grandeur of their Mess, 
 
 The henchmen, the prim stewardess! 
 
 And O the breaking of old ground, 
 
 The tales, after the port went round! 
 
 (The wondrous wiles of old Odysseus, 
 
 Old Agamemnon and his misuse 
 
 Of his command, and that young chit 
 
 Paris — who didn't care a bit 
 
 For Helen — only to annoy her 
 
 He did it really, k.t.X.) 
 
 74 
 
But soon they led amidst the din 
 
 The honey-sweet doi8o<; in, 
 
 Whose eyes were bhnd, whose soul had sight, 
 
 Who knew the fame of men in fight — 
 
 Bard of white hair and trembling foot, 
 
 Who sang whatever God might put 
 
 Into his heart. 
 
 And there he sung. 
 Those war-worn veterans among, 
 Tales of great war and strong hearts wrung, 
 Of clash of arms, of council's brawl. 
 Of beauty that must early fall, 
 Of battle hate and battle joy 
 By the old windy walls of Troy. 
 They felt that they were unreal then, 
 Visions and shadow-forms, not men. 
 But those the Bard did sing and say 
 (Some were their comrades, some were they) 
 Took shape and loomed and strengthened more 
 Greatly than they had guessed of yore. 
 
 75 
 
And now the fight begins again. 
 The old war-joy, the old war-pain. 
 Sons of one school across the sea 
 We have no fear to fight — 
 
 ****** 
 And soon, O soon, I do not doubt it. 
 With the body or without it, 
 We shall all come tumbling down 
 To our old wrinkled red-capped town. 
 Perhaps the road up Ilsley way. 
 The old ridge-track, will be my way. 
 High up among the sheep and sky, 
 Look down on Wantage, passing by. 
 And see the smoke from Swindon town 
 And then full left at Liddington, 
 Where the four winds of heaven meet 
 The earth-blest traveller to greet. 
 And then my face is toward the south. 
 There is a singing on my mouth: 
 
 76 
 
Away to rightward I descry 
 
 My Barbury ensconced in sky. 
 
 Far underneath the Ogbourne twins, 
 
 And at my feet the thyme and whins, 
 
 The grasses with their Httle crowns 
 
 Of gold, the lovely Aldbourne downs. 
 
 And that old signpost (well I knew 
 
 That crazy signpost, arms askew, 
 
 Old mother of the four grass ways). 
 
 And then my mouth is dumb with praise, 
 
 For, past the wood and chalkpit tiny, 
 
 A ghmpse of Marlborough epareivrjl 
 
 So I descend beneath the rail 
 
 To warmth and welcome and wassail. 
 
 This from the battered trenches — rough, 
 
 Jingling and tedious enough. 
 
 And so I sign myself to you: 
 
 One, who some crooked pathways knew 
 
 77 
 
Round Bedwyn: who could scarcely leave 
 The Downs on a December eve: 
 Was at his happiest in shorts, 
 And got — not many good reports! 
 Small skill of rhyming in his hand — 
 But you'll forgive — you'll understand. 
 
 12 July 191 5 
 
 78 
 
XXX 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 S.C.W.. V.C. 
 
 THERE is no fitter end than this. 
 No need is now to yearn nor sigh. 
 We know the glory that is his, 
 A glory that can never die. 
 
 Surely we knew it long before. 
 
 Knew all along that he was made 
 
 For a swift radiant morning, for 
 A sacrificing swift night-shade. 
 
 8 September 191 5 
 
 79 
 
XXXI 
 
 BEHIND THE LINES 
 
 WE are now at the end of a few days' rest, a kilometre 
 behind the lines. Except for the farmyard noises 
 (new style) it might almost be the little village that first 
 took us to its arms six weeks ago. It has been a fine day, 
 following on a day's rain, so that the earth smells like spring. 
 I have just managed to break off a long conversation with 
 the farmer in charge, a tall thin stooping man with sad eyes, 
 in trouble about his land : les Anglais stole his peas, trod 
 down his corn and robbed his young potatoes : he told it as 
 a father telling of infanticide. There may have been fifteen 
 francs' worth of damage done ; he will never get compensation 
 out of those shifty Belgian burgomasters; but it was not 
 exactly the fifteen francs but the invasion of the soil that had 
 been his for forty years, in which the weather was his only 
 
 80 
 
enemy, that gave him a kind of Niobe's dignity to his 
 complaint. 
 
 Meanwhile there is the usual evening sluggishness. 
 Close by, a quickfirer is pounding away its allowance of a 
 dozen shells a day. It is like a cow coughing. Eastward 
 there begins a sound (all sounds begin at sundown and con- 
 tinue intermittently till midnight, reaching their zenith at 
 about 9 p.m. and then dying away as sleepiness claims their 
 masters) — a sound like a motor-cycle race — thousands of 
 motor-cycles tearing round and round a track, with cut-outs 
 out: it is really a pair of machine guns firing. And now 
 one sound awakens another. The old cow coughing has 
 started the motor-bykes: and now at intervals of a few 
 minutes come express trains in our direction : you can hear 
 them rushing toward us; they pass going straight for the 
 town behind us : and you hear them begin to slow down as 
 they reach the town: they will soon stop: but no, every 
 time, ]ust before they reach it, is a tremendous railway 
 accident. At least, it must be a railway accident, there is 
 so much noise, and you can see the dust that the wreckage 
 scatters. Sometimes the train behind comes very close, but 
 
 8i 
 
it too smashes on the wreckage of its forerunners. A tre- 
 mendous cloud of dust, and then the groans. So many 
 trains and accidents start the cow coughing again: only 
 another cow this time, somewhere behind us, a tremendous- 
 sized cow, Oavfjbuaiov oaov, with awful whooping-cough. It 
 must be a buffalo : this cough must burst its sides. And 
 now someone starts sliding down the stairs on a tin tray, 
 to soften the heart of the cow, make it laugh and cure its 
 cough. The din he makes is appalling. He is beating the 
 tray with a broom now, every two minutes a stroke : he has 
 certainly stopped the cow by this time, probably killed it. 
 He will leave off soon (thanks to the "shell tragedy") : we 
 know he can't last. 
 
 It is now almost dark : come out and see the fireworks. 
 While waiting for them to begin you can notice how pale 
 and white the corn is in the summer twilight: no wonder 
 with all this whooping-cough about. And the motor-cycles : 
 notice how all these races have at least a hundred entries: 
 there is never a single cycle going. And why are there no 
 birds coming back to roost? Where is the lark? I haven't 
 heard him all to-day. He must have got whooping-cough as 
 
 82 
 
well, or be staying at home through fear of the cow. I think 
 it will rain to-morrow, but there have been no swallows 
 circling low, stroking their breasts on the full ears of corn. 
 Anyhow, it is night now, but the circus does not close till 
 twelve. Look! there is the first of them! The fireworks 
 are beginning. Red flares shooting up high into the night, 
 or skimming low over the ground, Hke the swallows that are 
 not : and rockets bursting into stars. See how they illumine 
 that patch of ground a mile in front. See it, it is deadly 
 pale in their searching light : ghastly, I think, and featureless 
 except for two big lines of eyebrows ashy white, parallel 
 along it, raised a little from its surface. Eyebrows. Where 
 are the eyes ? Hush, there are no eyes. What those shooting 
 flares illumine is a mole. A long thin mole. Burrowing by 
 day, and shoving a timorous enquiring snout above the ground 
 by night. Look, did you see it? No, you cannot see it from 
 here. But were you a good deal nearer, you would see behind 
 that snout a long and endless row of sharp shining teeth. The 
 rockets catch the hght from these teeth and the teeth glitter: 
 they are silently removed from the poison-spitting gums of 
 the mole. For the mole's gums spit fire and, they say, send 
 
 83 &-2 
 
something more concrete than fire darting into the night. 
 Even when its teeth are off. But you cannot see all this 
 from here : you can only see the rockets and then for a 
 moment the pale ground beneath. But it is quite dark now. 
 And now for the fun of the fair! You will hear soon 
 the riding-master crack his whip— why, there it is. Listen, 
 a thousand whips are cracking, whipping the horses round 
 the ring. At last ! The fun of the circus is begun. For the 
 motor-cycle team race has started off again : and the whips 
 are cracking all : and the waresman starts again, beating his 
 loud tin tray to attract the customers : and the cows in the 
 cattle-show start coughing, coughing: and the firework dis- 
 play is at its best : and the circus specials come one after 
 another bearing the merry makers back to town, all to the 
 inevitable crash, the inevitable accident. It can't last long : 
 these accidents are so frequent, they'll all get soon killed off, 
 I hope. Yes, it is diminishing. The train service is can- 
 celled (and time too) : the cows have stopped coughing : and 
 the cycle race is done. Only the kids who have bought new 
 whips at the fair continue to crack them : and unused rockets 
 that lie about the ground are still sent up occasionally. But 
 
 84 
 
 ?:- 
 
now the children are being driven off to bed : only an 
 occasional whip-crack now (perhaps the child is now the 
 sufferer) : and the tired showmen going over the ground pick 
 up the rocket-sticks and dead flares. At least I suppose 
 this is what must be happening: for occasionally they still 
 find one that has not gone off and send it up out of mere 
 perversity. Else what silence ! 
 
 It must be midnight now. Yes, it is midnight. But 
 before you go to bed, bend down, put your ear against the 
 ground. What do you hear? "I hear an endless tapping 
 and a tramping to and fro : both are muffled : but they come 
 from everywhere. Tap, tap, tap : pick, pick, pick : tra-mp, 
 tra-mp, tra-mp." So you see the circus-goers are not all 
 gone to sleep. There is noise coming from the womb of 
 earth, noise of men who tap and mine and dig and pass to 
 and fro on their watch. What you have seen is the foam 
 and froth of war : but underground is labour and throbbing 
 and long watch. Which will one day bear their fruit. 
 They will set the circus on fire. Then what pandemonium ! 
 Let us hope it will not be to-morrow ! 
 
 15 July 1915 
 
 85 
 
EARLIER POEMS 
 
XXXII 
 A CALL TO ACTION 
 
 A THOUSAND years have passed away, 
 Cast back your glances on the scene. 
 Compare this England of to-day 
 
 With England as she once has been. 
 
 Fast beat the pulse of living then: 
 
 The hum of movement, throb of war, 
 
 The rushing mighty sound of men 
 Reverberated loud and far. 
 
 They girt their loins up and they trod 
 The path of danger, rough and high; 
 
 For Action, Action was their god, 
 
 "Be up and doing" was their cry. 
 
 87 
 
A thousand years have passed away; 
 
 The sands of life are running low; 
 The world is sleeping out her day; 
 
 The day is dying — be it so. 
 
 A thousand years have passed amain; 
 
 The sands of life are running thin ; 
 Thought is our leader — Thought is vain; 
 
 Speech is our goddess — Speech is sin. 
 
 II 
 
 It needs no thought to understand, 
 No speech to tell, nor sight to see 
 
 That there has come upon our land 
 The curse of Inactivity. 
 
 We do not see the vital point 
 
 That 'tis the eighth, most deadly, sin 
 To wail, "The world is out of joint" — 
 
 And not attempt to put it in. 
 
 88 
 
We see the swollen stream of crime 
 
 Flow hourly past us, thick and wide; 
 
 We gaze with interest for a time. 
 And pass by on the other side. 
 
 We see the tide of human sin 
 
 Rush roaring past our very door. 
 
 And scarcely one man plunges in 
 
 To drag the drowning to the shore. 
 
 We, dull and dreamy, stand and bHnk, 
 Forgetting glory, strength and pride. 
 
 Half— listless watchers on the brink, 
 Half — ruined victims of the tide. 
 
 Ill 
 
 We question, answer, make defence. 
 We sneer, we scoff, we criticize. 
 
 We wail and moan our decadence, 
 Enquire, investigate, surmise; 
 
 89 
 
We preach and prattle, peer and pry 
 And fit together two and two: 
 
 We ponder, argue, shout, swear, lie — 
 We will not, for we cannot, do. 
 
 Pale puny soldiers of the pen, 
 
 Absorbed in this your inky strife, 
 
 Act as of old, when men were men 
 England herself and life yet life. 
 
 October 191 2 
 
 90 
 
XXXIII 
 RAIN 
 
 WHEN the rain is coming down, 
 And all Court is still and bare. 
 And the leaves fall wrinkled, brown. 
 Through the kindly winter air. 
 And in tattered flannels I 
 'Sweat' beneath a tearful sky. 
 And the sky is dim and grey, 
 And the rain is coming down. 
 And I wander far away 
 From the little red-capped town: 
 There is something in the rain 
 That would bid me to remain: 
 There is something in the wind 
 That would whisper, "Leave behind 
 All this land of time and rules. 
 Land of bells and early schools. 
 
 91 
 
Latin, Greek and College food 
 Do you precious little good. 
 Leave them: if you would be free 
 Follow, follow, after me ! " 
 
 When I reach 'Four Miler's' height, 
 And I look abroad again 
 On the skies of dirty white 
 And the drifting veil of rain, 
 And the bunch of scattered hedge 
 Dimly swaying on the edge. 
 And the endless stretch of downs 
 Clad in green and silver gowns; 
 There is something in their dress 
 Of bleak barren ugliness. 
 That would whisper, "You have read 
 Of a land of light and glory: 
 But believe not what is said. 
 'Tis a kingdom bleak and hoary. 
 Where the winds and tempests call 
 And the rain sweeps over all. 
 
 92 
 
Heed not what the preachers say 
 Of a good land far away. 
 Here's a better land and kind 
 And it is not far to find." 
 
 Therefore, when we rise and sing 
 Of a distant land, so fine, 
 Where the bells for ever ring, 
 And the suns for ever shine: 
 Singing loud and singing grand. 
 Of a happy far-off land, 
 O! I smile to hear the song. 
 For I know that they are wrong, 
 That the happy land and gay 
 Is not very far away, 
 And that I can get there soon 
 Any rainy afternoon. 
 
 And when summer comes again. 
 And the downs are dimpling green, 
 And the air is free from rain. 
 And the clouds no longer seen: 
 
 93 
 
Then I know that they have gone 
 To find a new camp further on, 
 Where there is no shining sun 
 To throw Hght on what is done, 
 Where the summer can't intrude 
 On the fort where winter stood: 
 
 — Only blown and drenching grasses, 
 Only rain that never passes, 
 Moving mists and sweeping wind, 
 And I follow them behind! 
 
 October 191 2 
 
 94 
 
XXXIV 
 
 A TALE OF TWO CAREERS 
 
 I SUCCESS 
 
 HE does not dress as other men, 
 His 'kish' is loud and gay, 
 His 'side' is as the 'side' of ten 
 Because his 'barnes' are grey. 
 
 His head has swollen to a size 
 
 Beyond the proper size for heads. 
 
 He metaphorically buys 
 
 The ground on which he treads. 
 
 Before his face of haughty grace 
 The ordinary mortal cowers: 
 
 A 'forty-cap' has put the chap 
 Into another world from ours. 
 
 95 
 
The funny little world that lies 
 
 'Twixt High Street and the Mound 
 
 Is just a swarm of buzzing flies 
 That aimlessly go round: 
 
 If one is stronger in the limb 
 
 Or better able to work hard. 
 It's quite amusing to watch him 
 
 Ascending heavenward. 
 
 But if one cannot work or play 
 
 (Who loves the better part too well). 
 
 It's really sad to see the lad 
 
 Retained compulsorily in hell. 
 
 II FAILURE 
 
 We are the wasters, who have no 
 
 Hope in this world here, neither fame, 
 
 Because we cannot collar low 
 
 Nor write a strange dead tongue the same 
 
 As strange dead men did long ago. 
 
 96 
 
We are the weary, who begin 
 
 The race with joy, but early fail, 
 
 Because we do not care to win 
 
 A race that goes not to the frail 
 
 And humble: only the proud come in. 
 
 We are the shadow-forms, who pass 
 
 Unheeded hence from work and play. 
 
 We are to-day, but like the grass 
 That to-day is, we pass away; 
 
 And no one stops to say 'Alas!* 
 
 Though we have little, all we have 
 
 We give our School. And no return 
 
 We can expect for what we gave; 
 No joys; only a summons stern, 
 
 "Depart, for others entrance crave!" 
 
 97 
 
As soon as she can clearly prove 
 
 That from us is no hope of gain. 
 
 Because we only bring her love 
 
 And cannot bring her strength or brain, 
 
 She tells us, "Go: it is enough." 
 
 She turns us out at seventeen, 
 
 We may not know her any more, 
 
 And all our life with her has been 
 A life of seeing others score, 
 
 While we sink lower and are mean. 
 
 We have seen others reap success 
 
 Full-measure. None has come to us. 
 
 Our life has been one failure. Yes, 
 But does not God prefer it thus? 
 
 God does not also praise success. 
 
 98 
 
And for each failure that we meet. 
 
 And for each place we drop behind. 
 
 Each toil that holds our aching feet, 
 Each star we seek and never find, 
 
 God, knowing, gives us comfort meet. 
 
 The School we care for has not cared 
 
 To cherish nor keep our names to be 
 
 Memorials. God hath prepared 
 
 Some better thing for us, for we 
 
 His hopes have known, His failures shared. 
 
 November 191 2 
 
 99 
 
XXXV 
 
 PEACE 
 
 ^TpHERE is silence in the evening when the long days cease, 
 
 -"■ And a million men are praying for an ultimate release 
 From strife and sweat and sorrow — they are praying for 
 peace. 
 
 But God is marching on. 
 
 Peace for a people that is striving to be free! 
 Peace for the children of the wild wet sea! 
 Peace for the seekers of the promised land — do we 
 Want peace when God has none? 
 
 We pray for rest and beauty that we know we cannot earn, 
 And ever are we asking for a honey-sweet return; 
 But God will make it bitter, make it bitter, till we learn 
 That with tears the race is run. ■ 
 
 100 
 
And did not Jesus perish to bring to men, not peace, 
 But a sword, a sword for battle and a sword that should 
 
 not cease? 
 Two thousand years have passed us. Do we still want peace 
 Where the sword of Christ has shone? 
 
 Yes, Christ perished to present us with a sword, 
 That strife should be our portion and more strife our reward. 
 For toil and tribulation and the glory of the Lord 
 And the sword of Christ are one. 
 
 If you want to know the beauty of the thing called rest, 
 Go, get it from the poets, who will tell you it is best 
 (And their words are sweet as honey) to lie flat upon your 
 chest 
 
 And sleep till life is gone. 
 
 I know that there is beauty where the low streams run. 
 And the weeping of the willows and the big sunk sun. 
 But I know my work is doing and it never shall be done. 
 Though I march for ages on. 
 
 lOI 7-3 
 
Wild is the tumult of the long grey street, 
 O, is it never silent from the tramping of their feet? 
 Here, Jesus, is Thy triumph, and here the world's defeat. 
 For from here all peace has gone. 
 
 There's a stranger thing than beauty in the ceaseless city's 
 
 breast. 
 In the throbbing of its fever — and the wind is in the west. 
 And the rain is driving forward where there is no rest. 
 For the Lord is marching on. 
 
 December 19 12 
 
 102 
 
XXXVI 
 THE RIVER 
 
 HE watched the river running black 
 Beneath the blacker sky; 
 It did not pause upon its track 
 
 Of silent instancy. 
 It did not hasten, nor was slack. 
 But stiU went ghding by. 
 
 It was so black. There was no wind 
 
 Its patience to defy. 
 It was not that the man had sinned, 
 
 Or that he wished to die. 
 Only the wide and silent tide 
 
 Went slowly sweeping by. 
 
 103 
 
The mass of blackness moving down 
 Filled full of dreams the eye; 
 
 The lights of all the lighted town 
 Upon its breast did lie. 
 
 The tall black trees were upside down 
 In the river's phantasy. 
 
 He had an envy for its black 
 
 Inscrutability ; 
 He felt impatiently the lack 
 
 Of that great law whereby 
 The river never travels back 
 
 But still goes gliding by; 
 
 But still goes gliding by, nor clings 
 To passing things that die, 
 
 Nor shows the secrets that it brings 
 From its strange source on high. 
 
 And he felt "We are two living things. 
 And the weaker one is I." 
 
 104 
 
He saw the town, that living stack 
 Piled up against the sky. 
 
 He saw the river running black 
 On, on and on: O, why 
 
 Could he not move along his track 
 With such consistency? 
 
 He had a yearning for the strength 
 
 That comes of unity: 
 The union of one soul at length 
 
 With its twin-soul to He: 
 To be a part of one great strength 
 
 That moves and cannot die. 
 
 He watched the river running black 
 Beneath the blacker sky. 
 
 He pulled his coat about his back. 
 He did not strive nor cry. 
 
 He put his foot upon the track 
 That still went gliding by. 
 
 105 
 
The thing that never travels back 
 
 Received him silently. 
 And there was left no shred, no wrack 
 
 To show the reason why: 
 Only the river running black 
 
 Beneath the blacker sky. 
 
 February 191 3 
 
 106 
 
XXXVII 
 
 THE SEEKERS 
 
 ^TpHE gates are open on the road 
 -■• That leads to beauty and to God. 
 
 Perhaps the gates are not so fair, 
 Nor quite so bright as once they were, 
 When God Himself on earth did stand 
 And gave to Abraham His hand 
 And led him to a better land. 
 
 For lo! the unclean walk therein, 
 
 And those that have been soiled with sin. 
 
 The publican and harlot pass 
 
 Along: they do not stain its grass. 
 
 In it the needy has his share. 
 
 In it the foolish do not err. 
 
 Yes, spurned and fool and sinner stray 
 
 Along the highway and the way. 
 
 107 
 
And what if all its ways are trod 
 By those whom sin brings near to God? 
 This journey soon will make them clean : 
 Their faith is greater than their sin. 
 For still they travel slowly by 
 Beneath the promise of the sky, 
 Scorned and rejected utterly; 
 Unhonoured; things of little worth 
 Upon the highroads of this earth; 
 Afflicted, destitute and weak: 
 Nor find the beauty that they seek, 
 The God they set their trust upon: 
 — Yet still they march rejoicing on. 
 
 March 191 3 
 
 CAMBRIDGE: 
 PRINTED BY JOHN CLAY, M.A. AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
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