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Poems, 1908-1919
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Very mighty and tall,
As we travelled the roads and the seas,
And gathered the wage of our kind,
And were laggard or trim to the call
Of the duties that lengthen the hours
Into seasons that flourish and fall.
And blind,
In the womb of the flowers,
Unresting they wrought,
In the bulbs, in the depth of the year,
Buried far from our thought;
Till one day, when the thrushes were clear
In their note it was spring – and they know —
Unheeding we came into sight
Of that corner forgotten, and lo,
They had won through the meshes of mould,
And treasuries lay in the light,
Of ivory, purple, and gold.
RIDDLES, R.F.C.[1 - Lieutenant Stewart G. Ridley, Royal Flying Corps, sacrificed his life in the Egyptian desert in an attempt to save a comrade. He was twenty years of age.](1916)
He was a boy of April beauty; one
Who had not tried the world; who, while the sun
Flamed yet upon the eastern sky, was done.
Time would have brought him in her patient ways —
So his young beauty spoke – to prosperous days,
To fulness of authority and praise.
He would not wait so long. A boy, he spent
His boy’s dear life for England. Be content:
No honour of age had been more excellent.
THE SHIPS OF GRIEF
On seas where every pilot fails
A thousand thousand ships to-day
Ride with a moaning in their sails,
Through winds grey and waters grey.
They are the ships of grief. They go
As fleets are derelict and driven,
Estranged from every port they know,
Scarce asking fortitude of heaven.
No, do not hail them. Let them ride
Lonely as they would lonely be …
There is an hour will prove the tide,
There is a sun will strike the sea.
NOCTURNE
O royal night, under your stars that keep
Their golden troops in charted motion set,
The living legions are renewed in sleep
For bloodier battle yet.
O royal death, under your boundless sky
Where unrecorded constellations throng,
Dispassionate those other legions lie,
Invulnerably strong.
THE PATRIOT
Scarce is my life more dear to me,
Brief tutor of oblivion,
Than fields below the rookery
That comfortably looks upon
The little street of Piddington.
I never think of Avon’s meadows,
Ryton woods or Rydal mere,
Or moon-tide moulding Cotswold shadows,
But I know that half the fear
Of death’s indifference is here.
I love my land. No heart can know
The patriot’s mystery, until
It aches as mine for woods ablow
In Gloucestershire with daffodil,
Or Bicester brakes that violets fill.
No man can tell what passion surges
For the house of his nativity
In the patriot’s blood, until he purges
His grosser mood of jealousy,
And comes to meditate with me
Of gifts of earth that stamp his brain
As mine the pools of Ludlow mill,
The hazels fencing Trilly’s Lane,
And Forty Acres under Brill,
The ferry under Elsfield hill.
These are what England is to me,
Not empire, nor the name of her
Ranging from pole to tropic sea.
These are the soil in which I bear
All that I have of character.
As we travelled the roads and the seas,
And gathered the wage of our kind,
And were laggard or trim to the call
Of the duties that lengthen the hours
Into seasons that flourish and fall.
And blind,
In the womb of the flowers,
Unresting they wrought,
In the bulbs, in the depth of the year,
Buried far from our thought;
Till one day, when the thrushes were clear
In their note it was spring – and they know —
Unheeding we came into sight
Of that corner forgotten, and lo,
They had won through the meshes of mould,
And treasuries lay in the light,
Of ivory, purple, and gold.
RIDDLES, R.F.C.[1 - Lieutenant Stewart G. Ridley, Royal Flying Corps, sacrificed his life in the Egyptian desert in an attempt to save a comrade. He was twenty years of age.](1916)
He was a boy of April beauty; one
Who had not tried the world; who, while the sun
Flamed yet upon the eastern sky, was done.
Time would have brought him in her patient ways —
So his young beauty spoke – to prosperous days,
To fulness of authority and praise.
He would not wait so long. A boy, he spent
His boy’s dear life for England. Be content:
No honour of age had been more excellent.
THE SHIPS OF GRIEF
On seas where every pilot fails
A thousand thousand ships to-day
Ride with a moaning in their sails,
Through winds grey and waters grey.
They are the ships of grief. They go
As fleets are derelict and driven,
Estranged from every port they know,
Scarce asking fortitude of heaven.
No, do not hail them. Let them ride
Lonely as they would lonely be …
There is an hour will prove the tide,
There is a sun will strike the sea.
NOCTURNE
O royal night, under your stars that keep
Their golden troops in charted motion set,
The living legions are renewed in sleep
For bloodier battle yet.
O royal death, under your boundless sky
Where unrecorded constellations throng,
Dispassionate those other legions lie,
Invulnerably strong.
THE PATRIOT
Scarce is my life more dear to me,
Brief tutor of oblivion,
Than fields below the rookery
That comfortably looks upon
The little street of Piddington.
I never think of Avon’s meadows,
Ryton woods or Rydal mere,
Or moon-tide moulding Cotswold shadows,
But I know that half the fear
Of death’s indifference is here.
I love my land. No heart can know
The patriot’s mystery, until
It aches as mine for woods ablow
In Gloucestershire with daffodil,
Or Bicester brakes that violets fill.
No man can tell what passion surges
For the house of his nativity
In the patriot’s blood, until he purges
His grosser mood of jealousy,
And comes to meditate with me
Of gifts of earth that stamp his brain
As mine the pools of Ludlow mill,
The hazels fencing Trilly’s Lane,
And Forty Acres under Brill,
The ferry under Elsfield hill.
These are what England is to me,
Not empire, nor the name of her
Ranging from pole to tropic sea.
These are the soil in which I bear
All that I have of character.
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