Hallow-e'en, and poems of the war
1'ir i "' j "' t' ' lt i" fW<*ti »; HALLOW" H EH AMD Pi)l*HS Ot 11-II\ WAK >1 :is; (i^atnell mntttetattn iltbtatg Itifata, tXem fnrtt BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF HENRY W. SAGE 1891 PR 6023.E85H1 "1916^ """^ lllSi'S™;a,S[:!i!.P9.?.!Ps Of the war. 3 1924 013 639 517 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013639517 HALLOW-E'EN HALLOW-E'EN AND POEMS OF THE WAR BY W. M. LETTS AUTHOR 0> "SOnOS IROH CEIHSTES,""a ROUGH WAV," " OIAHA OBTHROHBO," SICi LONDON JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W. 1916 f\S5. 6.01:2;. PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LOHOOM AMD EBCCLBS, ENCLAMO. All righti reserved To yon who see The world with me I give this booh. If you in cowrtesy should loole With favour on its pages claim The title deed cmd write youi/r name Sere on this page. To you who hnovi The glamowr of the passing show, Sublime and sordid, trivial, great. But life, — this boole I dedicate. As casual looTcers-on we meet Sere at some comer of the street. It's good to hnow you see it too. Smile, sigh and wonder when I do ; That you discern the crooTeed jest Of contrast 'twixt our worst and best, Hv/mour is ever friendship's test. I like to hnow you hea/r the call Of all things sad, neglected, sthmU ; Thrill to the magic of the wind. Love country, town and your own hind, Siimers and saints and sea and sky Just as they are, for so do I. Then let this book I fain would mend Be yovirs, m/y friend. CONTENTS AD MILITES TXOt. Hallow-E'en, 1915 3 Hallow-E'bn, 1914 5 Thb Sfibeb of Oxfobd T The Call to Abms in oub Steeet .... 9 Chaplain to the Forces 11 Casualty 13 Pbo Patbia 15 Golden Bote ... .... 16 In the Making 17 Epiphany, 1916 19 SCBEENS 21 What Ebwabd? 23 To a Soldieb in Hospital 24 July, 1916 27 He Pbaybd 29 The Debebteb 30 A Sisteb in a Militaby Hospital .... 32 AD MORTUUM Dead 35 YouB Naue 36 Heabt'b Desibe 37 Loss .... 38 vii CONTENTS PAGE The Debam 39 In Memobt .40 Ip Love of Mute ........ 41 Alive .42 In Alili LOVBUNEBB 43 In Town 44 Spbing the Cheat 45 The Magic City 46 The Ghost 47 The Tbuce 48 MISCELLANEA EOBA Mybtica 51 The Winsb at Bethlehem 53 OFirsBiNQ 55 Sonia'b Song 56 The Wish ... 58 Home .......... 60 The Wind's Call 64 Elaine at Abtolat 66 The Page's Song of the Happy Lady ... 67 FaSeies .... .... 69 To Tim 71 A Dog's Grave 78 To Scott 74 The Monkey's Carol 75 Pensioners 77 Lookers-on 79 Friends 80 Angelic Service 82 OnB Lady of the Lupins 84 The Doctor 86 AD MILITES HALLOW-E'EN, 1915 Will you come back to us, men of our hearts, to- night In the misty close of the brief October day ? Will you leave the aliein graves where you sleep and steal away To see the gables and eaves of home grow dark in the evening light ? O men of the manor and moated hall and farm. Come back to-night, treading softly over the The dew of the autumn dusk will not betray where you pass ; The watchful dog may stir in his sleep but he'll raise no hoarse alarm. Then you will stand, not strangers, but wishful to look At the kindly lamplight shed from the open door, 3 B 2 HALLOW-KEN, 1915 And the fire-lit casement where one, having wept you sore. Sits dreaming alone with her sorrow, not heeding her open book. Forgotten awhile the weary trenches, the dome Of pitiless Eastern sky, in this quiet hour When no sound breaks the hush but the chimes from the old church tower. And the river's song at the weir, — ah ! then we will welcome you home. You will come back to us just as the robin sings Nunc Dimittis from the larch to a sun late set In purple woodlands; when caught like silver fish in a net The stars gleam out through the orchard boughs and the church owl flaps his wings. We have no fear of you, silent shadows, who tread The leaf-bestrewn paths, the dew-wet lawns. Draw near To the glowing fire, the empty chair, — we shall not fear, Being but ghosts for the lack of you, ghosts of our well-beloved dead. HALLOW-E'EN, 1914 " Why do you wait at your door, woman. Alone in the night ? " " I am waiting for one who will come, stranger. To show him a light. He will see me afar on the road And be glad at the sight." " Have you no fear in your heart, woman. To stand there alone .-' There is comfort for you and kindly content Beside the hearthstone." But she answered, " No rest can I have Till I welcome my own." " Is it far he must travel to-night, This man of your heart .'' " " Strange lands that I know not and pitiless seas Have kept us apart. And he travels this night to his home Without guide, without chart." 5 HALLOW-E'EN, 1914 " And has he companions to cheer him ? " "Aye, many," she said. " The candles are lighted, the hearthstones are swept, The fires glow red. We shall welcome them out of the night — Our home-coming dead." THE SPIRES OF OXFORD (SEEN FROM A TRAIN) I SAW the spires of Oxford As I was passing by, The grey spires of Oxford Against a pearl-grey sky ; My heart was with the Oxford men Who went abroad to die. The years go fast in Oxford, The golden years and gay ; The hoary colleges look down On careless boys at play. But when the bugles sounded — War ! They put their games away. They left the peaceful river. The cricket field, the quad, The shaven lawns of Oxford To seek a bloody sod. They gave their merry youth away For country and for God. 7 THE SPIRES OF OXFORD God rest you, happy gentlemen, Who laid your good lives down, Who took the khaki and the gun Instead of cap and gown. God bring you to a fairer place Than even Oxford town. THE CALL TO ARMS IN OUR STREET There's a woman sobs her heart out, With her head against the door, For the man that's called to leave her, — God have pity on the poor ! But it's beat, drums, beat. While the lads march down the street. And it's blow, trumpets, blow, Keep your tears until they go. There's a crowd of little children Who march along and shout. For it's fine to play at soldiers Now their fathers are called out. So it's beat, drums, beat ; But who'll find them food to eat ? And it's blow, trumpets, blow. Ah ! the children little know. THE CALL TO ARMS IN OUR STREET There's a mother who stands watching For the last look of her son, A worn poor widow woman And he her only one. But it's beat, drums, beat, Though God knows when we shall meet ; And it's blow, trumpets, blow : We must smile and cheer them so. There's a young girl who stands laughing, , For she thinks a war is grand, And it's fine to see the lads pass. And it's fine to hear the band. So it's beat, drums, beat. To the fall of many feet ; And it's blow, trumpets, blow, God go with you where you go To the war. lO CHAPLAIN TO THE FORCES Ambassador of Christ you go Up to the very gates of hell, Through fog of powder, storm of shell, To speak your Master's message : " Lo, The Prince of Peace is with you still, His peace be with you. His goodwill." It is not small, your priesthood's price. To be a man and yet stand by, To hold your life whilst others die. To bless, not share the sacrifice, To watch the strife and take no part — You with the fire at your heart. But yours, for our great Captain Christ To know the sweat of agony. The darkness of Gethsemane In anguish for these souls unpriced. Vicegerent of God's pity you, A sword must pierce your own soul through. CHAPLAIN TO THE FORCES In the pale gleam of new-born day Apart in some tree-shadowed place, Your altar but a packing case, Rude as the shed where Mary lay, Your sanctuary the rain-drenched sod You bring the kneeling soldier, God. As sentinel you guard the gate ^wixt life and death, and unto death Speed the brave soul whose failing breath Shudders not at the grip of Fate, But answers, gallant to the end, " Christ is the Word — and I His friend." Then God go with you, priest of God, For all is well and shall be well. What though you tread the roads of hell .'' With nail-pierced feet these ways He trod. Above the anguish and the loss Still floats the ensign of His Cross. 12 CASUALTY John Delaney of the Rifles has been shot. A man we never knew. Does it cloud the day for you That he lies among the dead Moving, hearing, heeding not ? No history will hold his humble name. No sculptured stone will tell The traveller where he fell ; That he lies among the dead Is the measure of his fame. When our troops return victorious shall we care That deaf to all the cheers, Lacking tribute of our tears. He is lying with the dead Stark and silent, God knows where ? 13 CASUALTY John Delaney of the Rifles — who was he ? A name seen on a list All unknown and all unmissed. What to us that he is dead ? — Yet he died for you and me. ' 14 PRO PATRIA In bowler hats, top coats, With woollen mufflers round their throats, They played at war, These men I watched to-day. Weary with office work, pinched-faced, depressed. About the field they marched and counter-marched. Halting and marking time and all the rest — Meanwhile the world went on its way To see the football heroes play. No music, no applause. No splendour for them but a Cause Hid deep at heart. They drilled there soberly. Their one half-holiday — ^the various show Of theatres all resisted, home renounced ; The Picture Palace with its kindly glow Forgotten now, that they may be Worthy of England's chivalry. 15 GOLDEN BOYS Not harps and palms for these, O God, Nor endless rest within the courts of Heaven, — These happy boys who left the football field, The hockey ground, the river, the eleven. In a far grimmer game, with high elated souls To score their goals. Let these, O God, still test their manhood's strength. Wrestle and leap and run, Feel sea and wind and sun ; With Cherubim contend ; The timeless morning spend In great celestial games. Let there be laughter and a merry noise Now that the fields of Heaven shine With all these golden boys. i6 IN THE MAKING " And of all knights — I out-take none, say what men will say — he beareth the flower of all chivalry." — MALony. God took fine clay and made a man As brave and true, as clean and straight As any since the world began. And men were first at odds with fate. His was the knighthood of a soul Whose faith and honour cannot fail. The Far-oflF City was his goal, His quest the vision of Sancgreal. Born of the race that sailed the sea With Hawke and Frobisher and Drake, He too could face death merrily And risk his all and never quake. Fearless and gentle, steel and fire, Son of an order passing hence. He rode like any old-time squire, Rode straight and never shirked a fence. l^ c IN THE MAKING What did he lack, what one thing more ? They could not tell who loved him best. Only they saw God try him sore And put his valour to the test. From death upon the battlefield He had not shrunk nor turned away. But stauncher still he would not yield To the long siege of every day. He would not wince nor show the pain Of that slow ordeal by fire. He set his face and laughed again Before his shattered hearths desire. So God approved the deep-laid plan We, blind-eyed, had not understood. God said " Behold, a gentleman," And smiled and saw His work was good. i8 EPIPHANY, 1916 The Kings still come to Bethlehem Though nineteen centuries have fled ; The Kings still come to Bethlehem To worship at a Baby's bed. And still a star shines in the East, For sage and soldier, king and priest. They come not as they came of old On lordly camels richly dight ; They come not bearing myrrh and gold And jewels for a king's delight. All battle-stained and grim are they Who seek the Prince of Peace to-day. They bring not pearls nor frankincense To offer Him for His content. Weary and worn with long suspense With kingdoms ravished, fortunes spent, They have no gifts to bring but these — Men's blood and women's agonies. 19 EPIPHANY, 1916 What toys have they to please a child ? Cannon and gun and bayonet. What gold ? Their honour undefiled. What myrrh ? Sad hearts and long regret. For they have found through bitter loss That Kings are throned upon the cross. The Kings still come to Bethlehem With broken hearts and souls sore-vexed. And still the star is guiding them Through weary nights and days perplexed. God greet you. Kings, that you may be New-crowned at His Epiphany. 20 SCREENS (IN A HOSPITAL) They put the screens around his bed ; A crumpled heap I saw him lie, White counterpane and rough dark head. Those screens — they showed that he would die. They put the screens about his bed ; We might not play the gramophone. And so we played at cards instead And left him dying there alone. The covers on the screen are red, The counterpanes are white and clean ; — He might have lived and loved and wed But now he's done for at nineteen. An ounce or more of Turkish lead. He got his wounds at Suvla Bay ; They've brought the Union Jack to spread Upon him when he goes away. 21 SCREENS He'll want those three red screens no more, Another man will get his bed, We'll make the row we did before But — Jove ! — I'm sorry that he's dead. 22 WHAT REWARD? You gave your life, boy, And ymi gave a limb : But he who gave his precious wits, Say, what reward for him ? One has hi^ glory, One has found his rest. But what of this poor babbler here With chin sunk on his breast ? Flotsam of battle, With brain bemused and dim, God, for such a sacrifice Say, what reward for him ? 23 TO A SOLDIER IN HOSPITAL (A. W.) Courage came to you with your boyhood's grace Of ardent life and limb. Each day new dangers steeled you to the test, To ride, to climb, to swim. Your hot blood taught you carelessness of death With every breath. So when you went to play another game You could not but be brave : An Empire's team, a rougher football field, The end — who knew ? — ^your grave. What matter ? On the winning of a goal You staked your soul. Yes, you wore courage as you wore your youth, With carelessness and joy. But in what Spartan school of discipline Did you get patience, boy ? How did you learn to bear this long-drawn pain And not complain .'' 24 TO A SOLDIER IN HOSPITAL Restless with throbbing hopes, with thwarted aims, Impulsive as a colt, How do you lie here month by weary month, Helpless and not revolt ? What joy can these monotonous days afford Here in a ward ? Yet you are merry as the spring-time birds Or feign the gaiety. Lest those who dress and tend your wound each day Should guess the agony, Lest they should suffer — this the only fear You let draw near. Greybeard philosophy has sought in books And argument this truth, — That man is greater than his pain, but you Have learnt it in your youth. You know the wisdom taught by Calvary At twenty-three. Death would have found you brave, but braver still You face each weary day, A merry Stoic, patient, chivalrous, Divinely kind and gay. You bear your knowledge lightly, graduate Of unkind Fate. 25 TO A SOLDIER IN HOSPITAL Careless philosopher, the first to laugh, The latest to complain ; Unmindful that you teach, you taught me this In your long fight with pain ; Since God made man so good, — here stands my creed, — God's good indeed. 26 JULY, 1916 Here in happy England the fields are steeped in quiet. Saving for larks' song and drone of bumble bees ; The deep lanes are decked with roses all a-riot. With bryony and vetch and ferny tapestries. O here a maid would linger to hear the blackbird fluting, And here a lad might pause by wind-berippled wheat, The lovers in the bat's light would hear the brown owl hooting. Before the latticed lights of home recalled their lagging feet. But over there, in France, the grass is torn and trodden, Owr pastures grow moon daisies, but theirs are strewn with lead. The fertile, kindly fields are harassed and blood- sodden. The sheaves they bear for harvesting will be our garnered dead. 27 JULY, 1916 But there the lads of England, in peril of advancing, Have laid their splendid lives down, ungrudging of the cost ; The record — -just their names here — means a moment's careless glancing, But who can tell the promise, the fulfilment of our lost? Here in happy England the Summer pours her treasure Of grasses, of flowers before our heedless feet. The swallow-haunted streams meander at their pleasure Through loosestrife and rushes and plumed meadow-sweet. Yet how shall we forget them, the young men, the splendid, Who left this golden heritage, who put the Summer by, Who kept for us our England inviolate, defended. But by their passing made for us December of July." 28 HE PRAYED He prayed, There where he lay, Blood-sodden and unkempt, As never in his young carelessness he'd dreamt That he could pray. He prayed ; Not that the pain should cease, Nor yet for water in the parching heat. Nor for death's quick release, Nor even for the tardy feet Of stretcher-bearers bringing aid. He prayed ; Cast helpless on the bloody sod : " Don't trouble now, O God, for me. But keep the boys. Go forward with them, God ! O speed the Camerons to victory." The kilts flashed on : " Well played," he sighed, " well played." Just so he prayed. 29 THE DESERTER Theee was a man, — don't mind his name, Whom Fear had dogged by night and day. He could not face the German guns And so he turned and ran away. Just that — ^he turned and ran away, But who can judge him, you or I .'' God makes a man of ilesh and blood Who yearns to live and not to die. And this man when he feared to die Was scared as any frightened child. His knees were shaking under him. His breath came fast, his eyes were wild. I've seen a hare with eyes as wild, With throbbing heart and sobbing breath. But oh ! it shames one's soul to see A man in abject fear of death. But fear had gripped him, so had death ; His number had gone up that day. They might not heed his frightened eyes. They shot him when the dawn was grey. 30 THE DESERTER Blindfolded, when the dawn was grey, He stood there in a place apart. The shots rang out and down he fell, An English bullet in his heart. An English bullet in his heart ! But here's the irony of life, — His mother thinks he fought and fell A hero, foremost in the strife. So she goes proudly ; to the strife Her best, her hero son she gave. O well for her she does not know He lies in a deserter's grave. 31 A SISTER IN A MILITARY HOSPITAL Blue dress, blue tippet, trimmed with red. White veil, coif-like about her head. Starched apron, cuffs, and cool, kind hands. Trained servants to her quick commands. Swift feet that lag not to obey In diligent service day by day. A face that would have brought delight To some pure-souled pre-Raphaelite ; Madonna of a moment, caught Unwary in the toils of thought, Stilled in her tireless energy. Dark-eyed and hushed with sympathy. Warm, eager as the south-west wind, Straight as a larch and gaily kind As pinewood fires on winter eves. Wholesome and young as April leaves. Four seasons blent in rare accord — You have the Sister of our ward. 32 AD MORTUUM For England's sake men give their lives And we cry " Brave." But braver yet The hearts that break and live HaiAng no more to give. Mothers, sweethearts and wives. Let notie forget Or with aveiied head Pass this great sorrow hy — These would how thankfully be dead Yet may not die. 34 DEAD In misty cerements they wrapped the word My heart had feared so long : dead . . . dead .. I heard But marvelled they could think the thing was true Because death cannot be for such as you. So while they spoke kind words to suit my need Of foolish idle things my heart took heed, Your racquet and a worn-out tennis shoe, Your pipe upon the mantel, — then a bird Upon the wind-tossed larch began to sing And I remembered how one day in Spring You found the wren's nest in the wall and said " Hush ! . . . listen ! I can hear them quarrelling . .. The tennis court is marked, the wrens are fled. But you are dead, beloved, you are dead 35 » ^ YOUR NAME When I can dare at last to speak your name It shall not be with hushed and reverent speech As if your spirit were beyond the reach Of homely merry things, kind jest or game. Death shall not hide you in some jewelled shrine Nor set you in marmoreal pomp apart, You who still share the ingle of my heart, Participant in every thought of mine. Your name, when I can dare to speak it, dear, Shall still be linked with laughter and with joy. No solemn panegyrist shall destroy My image of you, gay, familiar As in old happy days, — lest I discover Too late Fve won a saint but lost a lover. 36 HEART'S DESIRE My heart's desire was like a garden seen On sudden through the opening of a door In the grey street of life, unguessed before But now how magic in sun-smitten green : Wide cedar-shaded lawns, the glow and sheen Of borders decked with all a gardener's lore. Long shaven hedges of old yew, hung o'er With gossamer, wide paths to please a queen, Whose happy silken skirts would brush the dew From peonies and lupins white and blue. Enchanted, there I lingered for a space, Forgetful of the street, of tasks to do. But when I would have entered that sweet place The wind rose and the door slammed in my face. 37 LOSS In losing you I lost my sun and moon And all the stars that blessed my lonely night. I lost the hope of Spring, the joy of June, The Autumn's peace, the Winter's firelight. I lost the zest of living, the sweet sense Expectant of your step, your smile, your kiss ; I lost all hope and fear and keen suspense For this cold calm, sans agony, sans bliss. I lost the rainbow's gold, the silver key That gave me freedom of my town of dreams ; I lost the path that leads to Faerie By beechen glades and heron-haunted streams. I lost the master word, dear love, the clue That threads the maze of life when I lost you. 38 THE DREAM I DREAMT — ^before death made such dreaming vain — That sometime, on a day of wind and rain, I would come home to you at fall of night And see your window flushed with firelight. There in the chill dark lonesomeness I'd wait A moment, standing at the garden gate Scarce trusting that my happiness was true, — The kind warm lights of home and love and you. Then, lest they'd vanish to be mine no more, I'd speed my steps along the garden path. Cross my own threshold, close the wind-blown door And find you in the firelight of the hearth. O happiness ! to kneel beside you there And feel your fingers resting on my hair. 39 IN MEMORY Would God that I might build my love in stone That would out-time the centuries and dare Despiteful death to lay his finger there, So that your fame to all men might be known ; A minster church, crowned with a soaring spire, Great buttressed walls, clerestory, lofty nave. Deep carven doors and every window brave With sunset hues. In chantry, transept, choir, So great a peace men needs must kneel to pray. Then I would have them, each to other say, " One loved her true love well and worthily And built this minster to his memory, God rest their souls " — so all should know the story, Your fame, beloved, and God's greater glory. 40 IF LOVE OF MINE If love of mine could witch you back to earth It would be when the bat is on the wing, The lawn dew-drenched, the first stars glimmering, The moon a golden slip of seven nights' birth. If prayer of mine could bring you it would be To this wraith-flowered jasmine-scented place Where shadow trees their branches interlace ; Phantoms we'd tread a land of fantasy. If love could hold you I would bid you wait Till the pearl sky is indigo and till The plough show silver lamps beyond the hill And Aldebaran bums above the gate. If love of mine could lure you back to me From the rose gardens of eternity. 41 ALIVE Because you live, though out of sight and reach, I will, so help me God, live bravely too, Taking the road with laughter and gay speech, Alert, intent to give life all its due. I will delight my soul with many things. The humours of the street and books and plays. Great rocks and waves winnowed by seagulls' wings, Star-jewelled Winter nights, gold harvest days, I will for your sake praise what I have missed. The sweet content of long-united lives, The sunrise joy of lovers who have kissed, Children with flower-faces, happy wives. And last I will praise Death who gives anew Brave life adventurous and love — and you. 42 IN ALL LOVELINESS I LOVE you in all loveliness, sweetheart. Skies, stars and flowers speak of you to me And every season is your emissary Lest I forget you now we are apart. The tracery of leafless trees inset Upon a safiPron sky : warm nights in June When corncrakes shout beneath a full low moon ; September mornings in a world dew-wet ; Dim harvest fields at dusk : tree-shadowed lawns, A garden sweet with lavender and stocks ; Pale flowers by twilight, jessamine and phlox ; The ring-doves' soft complaint in summer dawns ; The scent of cowslips, violets white and blue — These are the embassies that speak of you ! 43 IN TOWN I LOVE you in the vehement life of town, The pulsing high-ways, the gay market places : The masque of various players, king and clown. Philosopher and fool : the passing faces ; The sense of brotherhood with all I meet. I love you in the wonder of nighfs falling. The blossoming of lights in every street, The pearl-shell sky, pale river, voices calling The news of town : the homeward-pressing throng, The gay shop windows with their varied treasure ; Street melody, a snatch of careless song. Lovers arm-linked, the carnival of pleasure. O ardent soul, my friend, the town is dear Because in every street I feel you near. 44 SPRING THE CHEAT The wych-elm shakes its sequins to the ground, With every wind the chestnut blossoms fall : Down by the stream the willow-warblers sing, And in the garden to a merry sound The mown grass flies. The fantail pigeons call And sidle on the roof; a murmuring Of bees about the woodbine-covered wall, A child^s sweet chime of laughter — this is spring. Luminous evenings when the blackbird sways Upon the rose and tunes his flageolet, A sea of bluebells down the woodland ways, — O exquisite spring, all this — and yet — and yet — Kinder to me the bleak face of December Who gives no cheating hopes, but says—" Remember.' 45 THE MAGIC CITY I HAD not known you skilled in wizardry Until I trod the pavements at your side, When sudden at your " Open Sesame " The magic city flung its portals wide. Against a sky pale as a chrysolite I saw, sharp cut in shadow, dome and spire. Belfry and gabled roof, bewitched by night. Spangled with flame — my town of heart's desire. I left it thus at moonrise, and with day Came back alone — ah ! folly ! but to find The glamour fled from street and square and tower. Vanished my magic city ; chill and grey This drear familiar town, with face unkind Giving the lie to that enchanted hour- 46 THE GHOST My lady, musing at her mirror, said : " This is my burial night, for I am dead ; Hope dug the grave and laid my sad heart there, Sorrow was sexton, heavy-footed Care The lanthom-bearer. Love in sober stole Was priest, while fickle Joy stayed but to toll The bell for me ; then Memory graved the stone. And all being done, they left me there alone. But though the grave is made, the earth close-pressed About my heart, to-morrow I must rise. Put on my gay attire, laugh and jest. Lest one should read the secret in my eyes — Lest one should know that in this careless host Of revellers, I linger as a ghost." 47 THE TRUCE One made this prayer : " O Christ, I dearly crave Some little lazy peace to follow death ; A sunny bank where tranquil willows wave Wind-silvered leaves, and time to draw my breath Beside a stream knee-deep in arrow-head And dear forget-me-nots, a gentle spot Where I may thank my God that I am dead And all the traffic of the world forgot. There, dreamless, I shall lie so still — so still, The cautious moorhen piloting her brood Will heed me not, the heron stir no quill For fear of me in that kind solitude. O grant this truce from pain, this moment's rest. Before I brace my soul to further test.'" 48 MISCELLANEA ROSA MYSTICA Our Lady is the mystic rose that bloomed in Nazareth Against whose blessed heart there lay the Lord of life and death. She is the rose without a thorn that grew on Jesse's stem, The Rose of roses on her breast was lulled in Bethlehem. To this white rose at God's command the Angel Gabriel came, With promise of the Blessed One and message of His Name. Our Lady is the pale pink rose in whom all fragrance lies, Her summer was in Jesus' kiss, her sunshine in His eyes. 51 E 2 ROSA MYSTICA She is the golden-hearted rose that held our perfect joy: When in her arms against her heart she clasped her heavenly Boy. Our Lady is the red, red rose upon a royal tree, Deep red for love and red for grief, the reddest rose was she Whose soul was pierced by sorrow's sword on cross- crowned Calvary. 52 THE WINDS AT BETHLEHEM When Jesus lay on Mary's knee There was no wind nor breeze that stirred, For Heaven then made minstrelsy And all the earth in silence heard. There was no wind on sea or land. No boisterous gale blew loud and wild. The four great winds came hand in hand And stood about the Holy Child. The four great winds, their pinions furled, Came softly in with humble tread ; They saw the Maker of the World Upon His lowly manger bed. The South wind looked with radiant eyes Upon this King so small and sweet ; He softly sang Him lullabies And knelt adoring at His feet. 53 THE WINDS AT BETHLEHEM The West wind like a shepherd clad Had brought his pastoral pipes to play ; He piped his music wild and glad Until the shadows fled away. The North wind bowed and knelt him down To gaze upon the sight so fair ; He gave the Babe the frosty crown That lay upon his tangled hair. Before that shrine the East wind bent, He had strange gifts beyond all price, Of gold and gems of Orient And gums and frankincense and spice. There was no wind on sea or land, But round about the manger bed The four great winds stood hand in hand And worshipped there with wings outspread. 54 OFFERING She had no gift to bring her heart's beloved, So poor she was and sad, Having no store laid by to cheer the bleak to- morrow, So for his weal she offered all she had — ^her sorrow. Who knows but God, compassionate, took heed Accepting this her treasure. And on her heart's beloved one in his need Spent it in fullest measure. 55 SONIA'S SONG To hear the angels play their lutes To hear them sing were good, But oh ! rd choose to meet my love Deep in the beechen wood, With bluebells, bluebells everywhere About us as we stood. To see the cherubs play at ball In every golden street Were joy enough for Christian souls, Yet ah ! how heaven-sweet To walk the hills with one I know. The wild thyme at our feet. To gaze on all the holy saints. What should one ask but this ? The sight of them in white array Might be a sinner's bliss. But which of them has known the joy Of my true lover's kiss ? S6 SONIA'S SONG Have pity on our human hearts, Dear God, and of Thy grace Let me be with my own sweet-heart In some green sunny place. Oh, let me clasp his hand in mine And see his happy face. Then shall I laugh for joy of soul And merry company Till all the little seraphs hear And clap their hands for glee. Till the blessed saints and angels laugh Amid their melody. 57 THE WISH MAN of my heart, I have asked this of God, A little white house that faces the sun And yourself to be coming in from the fields When the day''s work is done. 1 have told it to God, the wish of my soul. The little white house at the butt of the hill. With a handful of land and some grass where the goat Could be eating her fill. White walls and nasturtiums, the yellow and red Climbing upwards to cling to the straw of the thatch, And a speckledy hen with a dozen fine eggs That she's wishful to hatch. 58 THE WISH The two of us there by the side of the hearth And the dark lonely night creeping up to the door, Your smile and your handclasp, oh ! man of my heart — I am asking no more. 59 HOME (IN DUBLIN) I GAVE her bread and bid her lead me home, For kilt she was with standing in the cold, An' she, the creature, not turned eight years old. She went before me on her small bare feet, Clutching some papers not yet sold, Down Westland Row and up Great Brunswick Street. Sometimes she'd turn and peer Into my face with eyes of fear. She'd hunch her rags in hope to find some heat. And stare at shops where they sold things to eat. Then suddenly she turned. And where a street lamp burned Led me along a narrow dirty lane ; Dim glass and broken pane Stood for the windows. Every shadowed door Held children of the poor That sheltered from the rain. 60 HOME Through one dark door she slipped and bid me come For this was home. A narrow stair we had to climb To reach the topmost floor. A hundred years of grime Clung to the walls, and time Had worked its will. Tenants the like o' these The landlords don't be planning how they'll please. A smell was in it made you hold your breath : These dirty houses pay the tax to death In babies' lives. But sure they swarm like bees, Who'd wonder at disease ^ The room held little but a depth o' dark ; A woman stirred and spoke the young one's name The fire -showed no spark, But presently there came A slipeen of a girl who made a flame By burning paper, holding it torch-fashion, Thinking, maybe, the place would stir compassion. A dirty mattress and a lidless chest That served for cradle ; near it stood A table of dark painted wood ; Foreninst the grate a chair With three legs good. 6i HOME The place was bare Of any sign of food. The light burnt out. The young one found more paper And kindled it for taper, This time I saw above the bed Our Lady in a robe of blue, A picture of our Saviour's head, Thorn-crowned. The light fell too On the child's frightened face. The wretched dirty place. And so I spoke of what the priests might do, Of them that help in such a case. They'd send the child to some good Home, And never let her roam About the streets, half-dead With cold and hunger. They'd teach her and befriend her. Wash her and mend her. They'd see her clothed and fed. And in a decent bed. She'd have her brush and comb. From every sort of hurt They would defend her. 62 HOME All this I said. And paused to let them speak. The child had caught her mother's skirt And pressed her cheek Against her arm, As if she feared some harm. So, clasping her, the mother shook her head. " You have a right," said she, " To leave her here with me. Heart-broke in such a place she'd be — The creature loves her home." 63 THE WIND'S CALL O Love, the wind would have us for a while, He called aloud our names about the eaves, Then passed like smoke across the meadow grass And with a breath made silver of the leaves. He cried to us to follow at his heels. He wound his horn where whitening willows grow. He stood awhile with ruffled wings to watch The swaying loosestrife and the river's flow. Come out, beloved, let us follow him. The dripping ivy taps against the pane, They bid us to the dance in field and wood, They beckon us — our playmates, wind and rain. They whisper to us of a hidden place Within the windswept woods, where boughs bend low, Where two may sit and learn their secret lore, Where haunted hazels and where rowans grow. 64 THE WIND'S CALL The wind is waiting, in your wistful eyes I see the woods reflected, gay and wild. What is a world of bricks and men to you ? Come out! Come out! The woods have claimed their child. 65 ELAINE AT ASTOLAT ' And ever she beheld Sir Lawicelot wonderfully." — Maloex. " My heart had contentment,'" she said, " Till I saw you pass by, Bewitching the bird from the bough And the stars from the sky. My soul had a sanctuary once But your shadow fell there, And the flame of the candles burnt dim In the chill of the air. My thoughts had their freedom," she sighed, " Till you took them in thrall, Now they follow like birds where you go. Rising up at your call." He heeded not, turned not his head For his heart was his own. And he passed with a song on his lips Where she waited alone. 66 THE PAGE'S SONG OF THE HAPPY LADY " The princess asked her page to sing, and he, sitting in the twilit 'window, sang this song to Ms lute." There was a lady broke her heart In two — in two. She hid the pieces out of sight And danced and sang the livelong night, For nothing else remained to do. " My joy," said she, " was like a bird. So soon it flew. And now the winter will be long With bitter winds and no bird's song . .. Grey weary days ! " Ah ! she spoke true. She sought no dreary cypress shade. Nor yew ... nor yew. They did not see her eyes were wet, She gathered pinks and mignonette. But hidden near her heart was rue. 67 THE PAGE'S SONG OF THE HAPPY LADY The Happy Lady she was called, So few, so few Can be so careless and so gay. But if she wept the night away None knew . . , none knew. 68 FAERIES In the smoke-wraiths blown by a Summer wind, In the bubbles upon a stream, In the scent of a rose that was born in June, In the memory of a dream, In the joy that sings to a minor key, In the youth that is young eternally Lie the silver spell and the golden charm Of the World of Faerie. When the sense of a life once lived returns, When the wind is full of the Spring, When a freedom nothing can chain awakes Then I know that the faeries sing ; And they sing a song that would lead us forth. Ah ! ifs never to East nor West nor North But across the evening and through the dusk To the land of Faerie. 69 FAERIES Their spell has a magic that words would break, But never the song of a bird In the splash of a stream that runs through a wood In the soughing trees it is heard. With a rustle amid the ferny brake, With the faintest ripple over the lake, With the sense of a presence near at hand Come the lords of Faerie. Men say that the faeries are bravely clad, But they come not in mortal guise. No voice has echoed the words they speak For they talk not in human voice. In the sudden patter of summer rain, In a wind that awakes to die again, In the murmur of birds through summer dawns Is the speech of Faerie. 70 TO TIM* (AN IRISH TERRIER) JEWEL of my heart, I sing your praise, Though you who are alas ! of middle age Have never been to school and cannot read The weary printed page. 1 sing your eyes, two pools in shadowed streams Where your soul shines in depths of sunny brown, Alertly raised to read my every mood Or thoughtfully cast down. I sing the little nose, so glossy wet, The well-trained sentry to your eager mind, So swift to catch the delicate glad scent Of rabbits on the wind. Ah ! fair to me your wheaten coloured coat, And fair the darker velvet of your ear, Ragged and scarred with old hostilities That never taught you fear. * Tim died September 8, 1916. 71 TO TIM But oh ! your heart, where my unworthiness Is made perfection by love's alchemy, How often does your doghood's faith cry shame To my inconstancy. At last I know the hunter Death will come And whistle low the call you must obey. So you will leave me, comrade of my heart, To take a lonely way. Some tell me, Tim, we shall not meet again. But for their loveless logic need we care ? If I should win to Heaven's gate I know You will be waiting there. 72 A DOG'S GRAVE He sleeps where he would wish, in easy call, Here in a primrose nook beside the wall And near the gate, that he may guard us all Even in death, our faithful seneschal. I do not think the courteous Cherubim Will chide him if he waits, nor Seraphim Summon him hence till we may follow him Who knew no heav'n without us — faithful Tim. 73 TO SCOTT (A COLLIE, FOE NINE YEARS OUR FRIEND) Old friend, your place is empty now. No more Shall we obey the imperious deep-mouthed call That begged the instant freedom of our hall. We shall not trace your foot-fall on the floor Nor hear your urgent paws upon the door. The loud-thumped tail that welcomed one and all, The volleyed bark that nightly would appal Our tim'rous errand boys — these things are o'er. But always yours shall be a household name. And other dogs must list' your storied fame ; So gallant and so courteous, Scott, you were. Mighty abroad, at home most debonair. Now God who made you will not count it blame That we commend your spirit to His care. 74 THE MONKEY'S CAROL Kind Christian souls who pass me by On business intent, I pray you think on such as I Who pine in banishment. I wear a little coat of red, A little bonnet on my head. Kind gentles, throw a coin to me And God reward your charity. My master grinds the music out To cheer the sullen street ; The children gather round about And dance with joyous feet. Have pity on the poor old man And give him pennies all who can ; Have pity on his monkey too. And God be pitiful to you. 75 THE MONKEY'S CAROL Once long ago my heart was light Amongst my brethren in the south, Fulfilled with joy I slept at night The taste of mangoes in my mouth. But now I go from door to door. Have pity, gentles, on the poor. My master is both weak and old. And I am trembling in the cold. Your kitchens have a fragrant scent With pies and puddings on each side, I wish you all much merriment And peace and love this Christmastide. If you have nuts or fruit for me God will reward your charity ; For if you give the poor their share God will not leave your platters bare. 76 PENSIONERS My pensioners who daily Come here to beg their fare, For all their need dress gaily And have a jaunty air. With "Tira— lira— lira— Now of your charity Pray help the little brethren Of noble poverty." One shines in glossy sable, One wears a russet coat, And one who seeks my table Has red about his throat. With « Tira— lira— lira— " Gay waistcoat, speckled vest, Black cap and fine blue bonnet. They all come bravely dressed. n PENSIONERS To them I gladly scatter In this their time of need, Heap bread upon their platter And ask not for my meed, But in the jocund spring-time Their songs give back to me A thousand-fold — my brethren Of noble poverty. 78 LOOKERS-ON My dear, though you and I should never win Parts in the mumming play of life nor shine In tarletan, or tinsel, mouthing fine Sweet sentences beneath a limelight moon — What odds? The seats are cheap, we'll come within As lookers-on ; watch lover and buffoon And clap for Columbine and Harlequin. We'll laugh aloud at hoary Pantaloon, And know our silly wanton hearts akin To Punchinello's, fooled by love and wine. The play and players vanish all too soon, — To envy them were but a churlish sin ; We will not grudge them flute and violin. We'll clap for Harlequin and Columbine. To envy them . . . Ah ! yes, — a churlish sin ! 79 FRIENDS My friends have been like daily bread, Essential yet unmerited ; As kind as sunshine after rain And firelight on the window pane : As kind as harbour lights at sea Or some familiar melody : As good as salt my friends to me. I count them over for love's praise, — The rascal troop of childhood's days. The laughter-loving friends of school Who sighed beneath the selfsame rule. The lank of limb, the quick of tongue. With waist-encircling arms we clung, — So well we loved when we were young. I found them matched to every mood, Wise, frivolous or rash or good ; Gay comrades of the winter fire Or, answering summertime's desire. Companions of the sun and wind. Dear fellow-travellers, proven, kind. The spirit-kin of heart and mind. 80 FRIENDS I bless them all, but ah ! most blessed Be those true friends beyond the rest Who, silent but yet unafraid, Have watched and waited, loved and prayed. When, lone as every soul must be. The dreary shadows closed on me In nether-pits of agony. With friendship little need I care For stiffening limbs and whitening hair. For as the tale of years is told My friends grow old — they too grow old. But since death makes worn things anew Old bonds shall prove more tried and true, ril still love you . . . and you . . . and you. 81 ANGELIC SERVICE No angel is so high But serveth clowns and kings And doeth lowly things ; He in this serviceable love can see The symbol of some heavenly mystery, — So common things grow wings. No angel bravely dressed In larkspur-coloured gown, But he will bend him down And sweep with careful art the meanest flooi-, Singing the while he sweeps and toiling more Because he wears a crown. Set water on to boil. An angel helps thee straight ; Kneeling beside the grate With pursed mouth he bloweth up the flame Chiding the tardy kettle that for shame Would make an angel wait. 82 ANGELIC SERVICE Make thou conserves, the while Two little cherubs stand Tip-toe at either hand, And one would help thee stir, and one would skim The golden juice that foams about the brim, So serveth thy command. And that same toil-worn broom So humble in thine eyes. 