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IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE. _Title:_ The Outpost _Date of first publication:_ 1944 _Author:_ Wilfrid Wilson Gibson (1878-1962) _Date first posted:_ May 8, 2015 _Date last updated:_ May 8, 2015 Faded Page eBook #20150524 This ebook was produced by: Marcia Brooks, Al Haines, Alex White & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net _By the Same Writer_ _The Searchlights_ _Challenge_ _The Alert_ _Coming and Going_ (_Oxford University Press_) _Collected Poems_, 1905-1925 _The Golden Room_ _Hazards_ _Islands_ _Fuel_ (_Macmillan & Co._) _A Leaping Flame, A Sail!_ (_Privately Printed_) W I L F R I D G I B S O N * * * * * THE OUTPOST * * * * * O X F O R D U N I V E R S I T Y P R E S S L O N D O N N E W Y O R K T O R O N T O 1944 _Oxford University Press_ _Amen House, E.C._4 _London Edinburgh Glasgow New York_ _Toronto Melbourne Capetown Bombay_ _Calcutta Madras_ _Humphrey Milford_ _Publisher to the University_ PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY THE CHISWICK PRESS, LONDON, N.II 2144.6365 _To_ _Conal o’Riordan_ _Contents_ THE BEECH LOGS _The Whales_ _The Unseen Rider_ _In the Small Hours_ _And Now He Stumbles On_ . . . _The Snake_ _The Islander_ _The Jaws of Death_ _Now He is digging Sheep_ . . . _The Can_ _The Morass_ _The Butterfly_ _The Craneman_ _The Dead Fish_ _Mountain Death_ _Etna_ _Tantallon_ _The Kill_ _Always an Easy Temper_ . . . _The Orange_ _The Ticking Watch_ _The Home_ _The Lava_ _The Goldfish_ _The Rainbow_ _Down from the Apennines_ _Cassino_ _The Almond Tree_ _He Took Life Easy_ _The Calvary_ _The Wedding Ring_ _The Outpost_ _The Prisoner_ _The Tenement_ _The Sea Shell_ _The Song_ _The Plough_ _The Lizard_ _The Pillbox_ _The Rats_ _The Clerk_ _The Monk_ _The Kid_ _The Shadow_ _The Revenant_ _The Birds Return_ _The Face_ _The Respite_ _Down the Glen_ _The Summons_ _Embarkation Leave_ _The Match_ _Offerings_ _The Broken Pipe_ _The Home Bird_ _The Leather Jerkin_ _The Dance_ _The Little Room_ _The Stack of Straw_ _The Old Love_ _The Hero_ _The Lustre Jug_ _The Little Copse_ _The Cancelled Leave_ _In the Dead of the Night_ _Desert Night_ _She Watches on the Shore_ . . . _Drifts_ _The Silver Cup_ _Hill Music_ _The Night Grows late_ . . . _His Word_ _The Curtains_ _The Broken Tether_ _He came to her that Night_ . . . _The Waters of the Tyne_ _The Gift_ _The Chimneystack_ _The Letter_ _The Troth_ _It Always Was His Pride_ _Bread_ _The Last Flight_ _Border Watch_ _The Cheerful Blaze_ _The Watch_ _The Fluttered Doves_ _The Desolate Heart_ _Tantalus_ _The Link_ _The Blind Man_ _The Crest_ _And This, the End_ . . . _Alone_ _Munitions_ _The Tarn_ _The Children_ _The Lime_ _Snow_ _The Spar_ _Scorched Earth_ _The Hour_ _Under the Rowan_ _The Fire_ _Over_ _The Driver_ _The Victim_ _One Hour_ _Her Son_ _The Withered Branch_ _The Quiet Heart_ _The Family_ _The Test_ _The Adage_ _The Nurse_ _The Voyage_ _Heart of My Heart_ . . . _Sole Survivor_ _The Lesson_ _Employment_ _The Category_ _The Dragons_ _The Hit_ _The Weathercock_ _The Alabaster Earl_ _Companions_ _The Bland Face_ _The Vagrant_ _The Undertaker_ _The Spy_ _Salvage_ _Fuel_ _The Iron Days_ _So Brief a Life_ _The Heron_ _His Letter_ _The Miller’s Pond_ _The Homecoming_ _Crocuses_ _The Invalid_ _The Cottage Garden_ _The Summer Moon_ _The Medal_ _Lives_ _The Weeping Beech_ _The Cost_ _The Young Poet_ _The Magpies_ _Hareshaw Linn_ _Ashes_ _The Woodpecker_ _Stars_ _And Still the Thrush Sings on_ . . . _The Folly_ _Dandelion Down_ _Toys_ _In the End_ _The Last Leave_ _The Canopy_ _The House Martins_ _The Golden Mile_ _For This?_ _The Broken Bridge_ _In Pride of Youth_ . . . _Rain_ _The Last Chapter_ _The Salmon_ _The Triumph_ _The Heart That Quivered_ _The Old Moon_ _O Wind!_ _The Raven_ _The Backward Glance_ _The New Washed Sheets_ _As the First Blackbird Sang_ . . . _England Aroused_ _Till Death_ . . . _The Change of Wind_ _Winter Wheat_ _The News_ _The Lull_ _The Victors_ _No Room in the Inn_ _The Happy Flight_ _Bethlehem_ _Like Cage Bred Birds Released_ _Hill Waters_ The Beech Logs With lively flames of lemon and amethyst That flutter, twirl and twist The sizzling beech-logs burst into a blaze; And, watching, I recall the days When to the Ridgeway I would clamber Above the tidy cornlands, trimly hedged, And on the down’s edge, under branches fledged With April emerald or October amber, Would brood upon a world at strife And mankind held In an unparalleled And universal agony; Until the hanging woodland came to be Sacrificed, too, to war’s exigency— The boughs endangering The aircraft taking off at night For oversea In retributive flight To wreck arms-factories of the enemy. And, as the beech-logs crumble, charred with fire, Dreaming, once more I hear those branches swing Before the West wind, gaily flourishing The gallant banner of their leafy life: And that memorial music seems to be A stormy threnody For all the brave, whose ecstasy Upsurged in heady fountaining desire; Until they, too, in the full energy Of their exuberant youth fell, also doomed To be consumed Within the holocaust of total war. The Whales Suddenly in his brain With startling slam Door after door claps to . . . and, shuddering, He lifts his head and languidly Over the bulwarks peers across the sea, To find the boat surrounded by a gam Of sperm-whale, cows and calves, that, merrily Lob-tailing, slap the waves with flourished flukes, Then sound the ocean glooms, to rise again Spouting into the sun their spumy breath: And, even as he looks On the exhaustless energy Of those gay gambolling Undaunted creatures of the deep, He, who, long derelict with death, Had seemed to lie in his last sleep, Feels youth resilient in his veins once more, And with renewed vitality Determines, come what may, that, even yet, He will survive to set His foot again upon his native shore. The Unseen Rider On the high down above the sea I lie and listen to the talk Of jackdaws roosting in the chalk Of the cliff-face that from the surf Of tumbling breakers rises sheer; When, through the water’s monotone And chattering of daws, I hear A thud of hoofs across the turf. I hear; but dare not turn my head, Lest I should break the spell the sound Of horseshoes drumming on soft ground For evermore must hold for me; I dare not turn, lest I see there Some casual horseman all unknown, And not the boy with tossing hair Who rides the downs of memory. In the Small Hours Prey to all the evil powers Of the small black-hearted hours, Wakeful in her bed she lay Longing for the blink of day And the dawn-song of the lark; Though yet fearful of what morn Held for a world, battle-torn; When there shivered through the dark The sharp-edged and eerie crying Of a lych-owl in the park. And that crying seemed to her Fraught with all the sinister Cruelty that ever drives Men’s hag-ridden hunted lives, Till chance pounces, and they die: Though again and yet again, Clutching at the counterpane, To allay the agony Of her fluttering heart she murmured “It is only a bird’s cry!” And Now He Stumbles On . . . And now he stumbles on, a boy once more Among the slippery mangolds, crisped and hoar With sparkling rime—the heavy gamebag slung About his shoulder, and his nostril stung With icy tang and reek of fur and feather Warm bloody carcases and perished leather— Then pauses, as, now overhead A covey whirrs, and one by one The partridge tumble dead About him, slaughtered by his father’s gun. . . He had always loathed that slaughter—and yet he, A bearded stripling, dressed in jungle-green, Seeking to outwit enemies unseen, Now bears a gun, himself, as, blunderingly, He slithers through the swamp in tropic rain; Condemned by forces terrible and blind To slaughter or be slain, A killer of his kind— He, whose dumb boyish heart could never find The bitter words To voice his pity for those stricken birds! The Snake Out of the lush green brake The coiling snake In its sleek panoply Of rich reticulated bronze and jade Slithers; and, scarce awake, The soldier watches, unafraid, Who for five years has been outfacing death In all its violent variety. The Islander A lad, he had longed to leave His native isle, And venture out into the world that lay Beyond the severing waters of the kyle: But, now that war has borne Him oversea Further than ranges of his wildest dream, His heart knows only one desire, to be Secure at home within The little isle, Cut off for ever from a crazy world By the swift races of the severing kyle. The Jaws of Death Barely has he escaped The alligator’s jaws: And now upon the margin of the swamp He makes a pause To gain his breath, Glad to elude that brutal death; And then Into the jungle plunges, after all, Only to fall Trapped in an ambush by his fellow men. Now He is Digging Sheep . . . Now he is digging sheep Out of a fellside drift where, crouching low In the soft smother buried deep They huddle under hummocked snow: And, as he digs, the sweat Streams down his face: He digs and digs, and yet Comes on no trace Of his lost flock. . . Then, in the tropic night, He wakens with a shock From troubled sleep; And lies repining in the humid heat For Northern icy airs and the cold light Falling on dazzling folds of crystalled white. The Can An old tin can is glittering in the sun Beyond the heaped-up corpses of the dead: And, as it holds his eyes, into his head Flashes the vision of some ancient man, Long after the last battle’s lost, and won, And all the slain have sunk into the soil— Some ancient man, grown old in peaceful toil, Turning the mould and digging up that can Again to glitter in the morning sun. The Morass His tank had stuck, Bogged deep in the morass— A stationary target—just his luck! And, when the guns should get the range, like glass They’d shatter it, or, leastways, knock it out, Battered like an old kettle kicked about From boy to boy across the grass Of his old village-green . . . And he, well he Was too done-in to worry; and, seemingly, For evermore would be Just part of the morass. The Butterfly Out of the swamp into the chequered light Down the green jungle-glade A huge flamboyant butterfly Like the fantastic creature of a dream Flutters in brilliant flight Before his dazzled eyes: And, as he gazes at it in surprise, ’Twould almost seem To him that, from the reeking slough of war, One day may yet arise Some flame-winged vision of new loveliness To lead men from the despond of distress. The Craneman The travelling crane halts, and into the mould The tilting ladle pours The molten steel; And, as the whitehot glare Scorches his face and hair, The craneman’s heart turns cold Within his breast as, in the glow, He sees a wave-washed tanker, battling on In swirls of icy spray and snow Through Arctic waters to far Russian shores, And his young son, so lately gone On convoy-duty, even now Half-frozen at the wheel. The Dead Fish About the boat Upon the oily green The dead fish float, Killed by depth-charges when the submarine Was shattered—fish, fantastic and obscene Blind creatures of the ooze, from ocean-night, After long ages of obscurity In the primeval quiet of deep sea, By man’s mad machinations brought to light. Mountain Death Forced to bail out above the Alps, they quit One after one the burning plane, and float Down through dense cloud, escaping death by fire, Only on icy pinnacle and spire Caught in their parachutes to wait for death, Dangling in snowy solitudes, remote From all they loved in life, and yield their breath In sobbing gusts of agony Until The inexorable chill Freezes their youthful bodies, doomed to be Congealed in icy immortality. Etna After uneasy tossing in the night, On even keel the craft rides easily The dwindling swell of the subsiding sea Through little chattering waves that sparkle bright, Rejoicing in the early April light: And, as, down through the mine-sown straits we run, Looking towards the opal-misted strand, With brooding heart upon the deck I stand, Forlorn in the cold brilliance of a sun Creating a new world, from darkness won: When over the dream-dim Sicilian shore The veils divide and in the dawning glow The peak of Etna, virginal in snow, Above grey puffs that from her craters pour In austere loveliness is seen to soar In quietude, a lone aloof white crest That only, when the clouds an instant part, Consolingly to man’s war-tortured heart, Stilling the lava-passions of his breast, Reveals the vision of eventual rest. Tantallon Now he recalls Tantallon Castle with its ruined walls, Remembering how, an eager boy Rambling that Northern shore, Filled with the ecstasy of waking life, He had wondered why in ancient strife Mankind had battled, seeking to destroy Each other’s homes and sap security In senseless siege of the exultant towers That other hands had built in soaring pride . . . Yet now, he, too, caught up in war And carried oversea, Storming this Southern mountainside, Is set on like destruction, to hurl down The embattled walls of this Sicilian town. The Kill He saw a figure crouching in the crags, And fired; then charged with bayonet fixed, to find That writhing body, slumped behind A boulder on the rocky shelf, Was his own self. Always an Easy Temper . . . Always an easy temper—and so he Even to battle went lightheartedly: But, when his friend fell, he with furious breath In whitehot anger hurled himself on death. The Orange He plucks an orange from a tree, Plucks it, and marvels much that he By war’s odd chance should come to be In this strange land where oranges Hang ripe on orchard trees. And, gazing at that golden sphere, His thoughts whisk back full many a year— And, now, a boy, quite sharp and clear He hears wheels grind crisp Christmas snow, And draws an orange from the stocking-toe. The Ticking Watch He holds his wristwatch to his ear And listens to time ticking out The seconds, as the hour draws near— The zero-hour, when he May chance to be Hurled into timeless and unmeasured Eternity; While still upon his pulseless wrist his watch Ticks on regardlessly. The Home He looks upon the rubble that has been Once a Sicilian home, with troubled eyes . . . And then, in dream, he sees, Beneath the Coolins in the Hebrides, A little croft that crests a heathered rise— A low thatched croft with whitewashed walls that hold His heart’s desire still in security: Then, turning from that brief Vision of peace, he shares the bitter grief Of this outcast Sicilian family. The Lava Watching the lava-stream Out of Vesuvius pour, In the hot lurid gleam Of molten death that threatens The hillside homes, he only sees one more Tributary to the tide That sweeps this Southern land from side to side. The Goldfish Beneath the flaring of the shell-shot sky, In the stone basin of the fountain lie The ageless carp with quivering gold fins, Indifferent to the transient despair In which man’s generations fight and die. The Rainbow The bloody battle many days ago Swept to the mountain-passes; and the plain Is strewn with corpses, rotting in the rain, The huddled heaps of the untimely slain, Spanned by the quivering cold lucency Of timeless heaven’s evanescent bow. Down from the Apennines . . . Down from the Apennines the snow-fed waters Roar, and the soldier now with quickening blood Recalls the brawling of fell-burns in flood; And, gazing on the turbid hurly-burly Of tawny waters flashing into foam, For a glad instant almost feels at home Among his Northern hills—no more an exile In a strange country, and no longer pines For his loved Pennines, in the Apennines. Cassino Until his death, she had never even heard The name of that old town in Italy: But now for ever that strange foreign word For her is coupled in his memory With Kielder, where her lover first drew breath, And little thought to leave his North Tyne home, And in outlandish mountains meet his death, Battling with Germans on the road to Rome. Yet now, since, sailing to that Southern coast, He has fallen in the hazard of the war, Her heart must flit with his uneasy ghost ’Twixt Kielder and Cassino evermore. The Almond Trees The almond trees against far peaks of snow, First rosy flames of the quick-kindling Spring, In vivid loveliness Flicker and glow, And to his spirit bring A momentary solace as he gazes; And waken in his heart, that long Has blundered through the mazes Of horror and distress, A sudden burst of song. He Took Life Easy . . . He took life easy in the days of peace And never of its worst made much ado: So, when chance caught him in the thick of fight, He took death easy, too. The Calvary He lifts his eyes, to see Upon the craggy height The tortured figure, crudely carved in wood, That in the sunset-light Seems now to stream with freshly-flowing blood; When, even as he gazes, a stray shell Shatters the calvary. The Wedding Ring The ring slipped from her finger suddenly As she was drawing water from the well; And, as down the dark shaft it fell, Her heart fell with it—and she knew that he, Her husband, fighting in far Italy, Had dropped in death that instant; and their life As man and wife, Caught in the casual chances of the war, Had vanished with the ring for evermore. The Outpost When the call came to them, from far and wide They answered, leaving scattered homes—yet died Together, when the outpost fell at last, As brothers, side by side. The Prisoner He stands, exhausted and bewildered, But still with hot heart on blind murder set, While, grinning, his disarming captor Proffers a cigarette. The Tenement He climbs and climbs the stair To reach the room in the high tenement Where she awaits him; flight on flight, With lungs that labour in the stifling air, He climbs and climbs through an unending night, Climbs in despair Of ever coming there, Until, with spirit spent, He sinks . . . and wakens on the mountainside, Lying with shattered limbs; while far and wide Ranging from hill to hill The battle rages still With roar and flare. The Sea Shell Crossing the Anzio strand, He picked up a sea-shell of pearly hue; And, as he held it in his hand And looked on its fantastic whorls, he knew How glad his little girl would be To add it to her treasury Of sea-shells gathered on the Northern shore, If only he might live to bring This fragile lovely thing Home to her from the war. The Song Now in the gusty tent, While the storm threshes down the mountainside, The poet strives to write The song that through the hubbub of the fight Hummed in his head— The song of early days of lost delight, Before the battle-tide, Sweeping the world, in crashing chaos drowned All that he loved—the song that still shall sound His joy in other ears when he is dead. The Plough Beside the smouldering farmstead he finds now, Stuck in a furrow, an abandoned plough, And longs to drop his weapons, and to hold The stilts and drive the coulter through the mould, Doing once more the job he loved of old. The Lizard With a quicksilver quiver through the stones A lizard flicks in sight; And he feels something of a boy’s delight To see that little slip of urgent life Going about its breathless business, Unconscious of the deadly strife. The Pillbox Of old, behind a chemist’s counter he Served customers with draughts and pills And powders to alleviate their ills: But now, as battle flares To fury, he, among the snowbound hills Of Southern Italy, Within a concrete pillbox busily Serves other customers with other wares. The Rats Their pinpoint eyes aglint in cold moonlight, The brown rats scramble from their holes at night, Rejoiced that man’s mad slaughtering should yield So rich a banquet on the stricken field. The Clerk In civil life, he drove a patient pen On smooth white ledger-pages, harmlessly: Now up the rough road of a mountain-glen He drives a fell machine to cancel men. The Monk Kneeling within his cell, The monk was praying when the fire-bombs fell; And so his soul, maybe, Evaded tedious purgatory— Rapt straight to heaven from hell. The Kid He hears a bleating, and looks up, to see A tethered nanny-goat, wild-eyed, On a green shelf of the steep mountainside, Nuzzling the still white carcase of her kid, Slain by the random shot Of some far sniper, hid Down in the rocky glen: And now remorsefully He wonders it should be the lot Of that young innocent life To fall, a victim to the insane strife Of murderous men. The Shadow Reaching the crest, laved in the sunset-glow He sees his shadow thrown across the snow Of a far hillside; and it seems to be The helmed shadow of the god of war Defiling nature’s pristine purity. The Revenant The ceilings sag, the rafters, thrust awry On tilted joists; through chinks in riven walls Filters the bleak light of the Winter sky; And fitfully the flaking plaster falls; Casement and door, on hinges wrenched askew, ’Twixt crooked jamb and lintel idly flap In every gusty draught, that shudders through The desolated rooms, with startling clap: While he who built this house, and little dreamt Winged enemies should wreck its homely pride, Who all his life still kept it trim and kempt As on the day he brought to it his bride, From the forgetful quiet of the tomb Recalled to his old home by its distress, Uneasily from room to shattered room Rambles in memory-anguished restlessness. The Birds Return The cuckoos call and swallows slice the blue On sickle-wings, returned anew From Africa; but he, who sailed, before Their Autumn flight, towards that Southern shore. Comes back no more. The cuckoos in her brain drum death’s tattoo, And those sharp swallow-wings cut through Her very being, cleaving her heart’s core . . . The birds return: but from that fatal shore He comes no more. The Face Over the bow in the wreckage he caught A moment the glimmer of tangled gold hair; And, stooping yet lower, he looked on a face That gleamed in the flotsam, foam-cold and foam-fair— A face that had come through the fury of storm And the fury of fight and of man’s treachery, To dream in the dawnlight serenely awhile, Till it sank in the untroubled ooze of deep sea: And, though bright be the glances and merry the smiles Of the girls in the village, he passes them by— Still held in his heart by the glimpse of a face That floated in peace beneath the dawn-sky. The Respite Crouched at the coppice-edge with tommy-gun, Closely he scans the bracken-covered brae That basks and shimmers in the morning sun, Alert lest sudden-tossing fronds betray The lurking of an enemy in the dense Green brake; his body tingling with suspense In every fibre and each sense Whetted by hazard to a razor-keen And quickened apprehension: when, aware Of a familiar fragrance in the air, His nostrils quiver with delight, and he Relaxes, as into the sheltering green He thrusts a hand and eagerly Draws down long dangling honeysuckle sprays Still dewy, and breathes in with bliss intense Recovered sweets of early innocence; And, for a moment tranced in memory, Forgets all the outrageous violence And murderous madness of hate-harried days— A moment; then, refreshed, with sharper sight Searches the sun-glazed hill Whose bracken-thicket still Shimmers unstirring in heat-rippled light. Down the Glen “Why do you still go traipsing down the glen Day after day?” “I’m only following the pathway Ben Took, when he went away.” “Better to keep on working; so that you Forget the dead.” “Maybe—but what is left for me to do. Since I’ve made up his bed?” The Summons In dream she seems to feel the clasp Of his strong fingers on her own— Then shrinks, to find her hand held in the grasp Of fleshless bone And hear a voice “Though lone you lie, Bereaved, in the wide bed, more lone Lies he beneath the Libyan sky, Stript to the bone: And he, who shared your sleep with you, Flesh of your flesh, now claims his own True love to share his slumber—true Bone of his bone.” Embarkation Leave Arrived on leave too late the night before To visit his old workshop, now he turned The key of the shed; and, thrusting wide the door, In the cold light of the Winter dawn discerned, Propped up on chocks on the hard earthen floor, The keel of the ketch he had laid in happier days, Before the world crashed to catastrophe, And he had been called up. And, as he caught Again the chips’ keen tang of turpentine With relish, his bright eyes with loving gaze From swerving bow to sternpost of red pine Followed once more the graceful sweeping line From which the curved ribs branched, that, skilfully, With sharp adze he had shaped, without a thought That he might never even live to see His dream-boat take the tide. And, as a gull Greeted with sudden skirl the rising sun Above the shed, he looked with deep distress On the unfinished shapely skeleton Of his desire, to think another’s hand Should cut the strakes and warp them for her hull And fix the booms and rigging; and that he, Himself, might never launch her from the strand And proudly step the masts and bend the sails To take the breeze. And then warm thankfulness Surged through his heart with hope that, anyhow, His leave would let him work upon her now For two whole days, and handle happily His tools, instead of weapons; and, as he Wrought at his bench, with the familiar wails Of gulls and the loved murmur of the sea Filling his ears, he might ignore awhile The business of destruction and of death, Doing his own true job. So, eagerly Drawing into his lungs the living breath Of dawn, he picked his plane up with a smile. The Match He strikes a match to light a cigarette; And, at the flicker, something in his mind Rekindles: and, amazed he could forget One who had been so kind, He now recalls how night and day, When, sorely wounded, in the ward, half-blind And helpless, swathed in bandages he lay, She had served him hand and foot. And now again, As through a surge of pain, He sees her russet head While she beside the bed Leans over him to light That first consoling cigarette— Amazed he could forget, Forget that night! And yet, Even then he had hardly been aware Of the light glinting on her red-gold hair And little flames reflected in her eyes As they looked into his . . . Ay, he had been blind Then, and until this instant, when the scratch And flicker of a match Rekindles his dull mind— Blind, till this instant, blind! Offerings Last year in sunshine she was plucking flowers, Snapping the juicy stalks of daffodils: Now in the factory-glare through endless hours Case after case she fills. The blooms she picked for market brought delight And gladdened strangers with their golden bells: For strangers, too, she handles day and night Far other offerings—shells! The Broken Pipe He’d broken his good briar, his constant friend, And one he had thought would see him to the end: Blown by the blast against the warehouse wall, Staggered by shock, somehow he had let it fall. ’Twas bad luck, surely—his familiar pipe, Grown old with him, so mellow, brown and ripe— Bad luck, bad luck . . . And something in his head Burned like a redhot coal; and spots of red Were sparking in his eyes . . . He must stoop down To save the broken bits, though he should drown In the red tide that surged against his chest . . . He must stoop down; and, after, he could rest When all the bits were safe . . . his oldest friend— He’d known . . . he’d known ’twould see him to the end. The Home Bird She knew that he was home, that he was lying Safely asleep in bed: She couldn’t climb the stair, herself, to see, Not these days, with her crippled knee, Not even if he were dying Or lay dead. . . “Dead!”—that was what they said— They said that he was dead, Had died in battle: but, how could that be? He’d never held with fighting, John—and he, Always the home-bird! Such a tale to tell! And to his mother, too! And shouldn’t she Know if her son were sleeping safe and well? The Leather Jerkin Far from his home and all familiar things The lonely stripling on the foreign shore Keeps sentry, watching with bewildered eyes The Aurora leaping in the Northern skies In quivering flames of icy green and blue; And shudders at the strangeness as he stares: And then, though bitingly the snell wind stings, The thought some comfort to his young heart brings— Though home be far from him, at least he wears The leather jerkin that his father wore When he in old days did his duty, too. The Dance Lads and lasses in service-dress Dancing, dancing, With lively limbs and gay eyes glancing Dancing to lilting rhythms, entrancing Minds overworn with the strain and the stress Of shattering days and nights, Into a dream of unchallenged delights Dancing, dancing! The Little Room The wings of doom Hover above The little room That holds our love: Yet, though death fall From out the night And shatter all Our life’s delight, Calm and strong-willed We’ll meet our doom, Whose love has filled The little room. The Stack of Straw On his last leave, though he was tired, He had turned to with the rest and helped to build The stack of straw; and, in his battle-dress, Forked the dry rustling gold and packed it tight— The stack of straw that, on the very night When he was killed, Patrolling the far Libyan wilderness, Went up, self-fired, In a wild blaze of furious heat and light. The Old Love I fancied I at last Had wooed him from the sea, To hold him happily For ever safe and fast At home with me. But when the curse of war Fresh hazards to the sea And seamen brought, then he Could rest in peace no more At home with me: And to the calling tides Of his old love, the sea, He answered eagerly; And only heartbreak bides At home with me. The Hero Life broke all promises: and gave, instead, Death for his daily bread; And he with every breath Drew in the reek of death: Life broke all promises; yet, as he died, He snatched in triumph all life had denied. The Lustre Jug To-day my duster caught his favorite jug And sent it smashing to the floor; And, as its lustred splinters, littering The flagstones, held my eyes, I thought—No more From its broad spout he’ll pour The amber frothing ale into a mug— And, listening to his linnet twittering, I stood, still dazzled by the glittering, And murmured to myself half-crazily— “No more, no more his hand will pour The amber ale when he . . . if he Should come back from the war.” The Little Copse So, it was gone—they wrote—the little copse Of silver-birches by the singing stream, Shrivelled to ash by chance incendiaries— The little copse, so full of memories Of childhood’s games and laughter! Yet, in dream, Driving through swirls of blinding searing sand Of this hell-burning land, Still through its April leafy flickering He sees the white boles in cool sunlight gleam, While startled squirrels set the boughs aswing. The Cancelled Leave I watched the passengers alighting From the belated train; And anxiously my glance kept flitting, Kept flitting to and fro From face to face, in vain: No eyes met mine in recognition; And, when all had gone past, I realised his leave was cancelled— That Death, the new C. O., Had taken charge at last. In the Dead of the Night Lying awake In the dead of the night, He hears the far roar Of aircraft in flight And the skirl and the thud Of bombs plumping down On the houses and shops Of the old market-town; And, troubled, recalls How he, as a boy, Set out each September With heart full of joy To spend a great day At the Michaelmas Fair, When the stalls and the swings Filled the old Market Square: And, living again That early delight, He grieves for the town In its pitiful plight— The town that of old Was his city of dream: And now through his head The bombs hurl and scream; And his heart is consumed By the fury and heat, As the old houses crumble In every loved street, And it shrivels to ash, Forlorn in the glare Of the terror that rains On the old Market Square. Desert Night What do you see as you pace the night To and fro On sentry-go? _The full moon trancing with light_ _Cheviot silvered with snow!_ What do you smell as you pace the night On sentry-beat With burning feet? _Redesdale in morning light_ _Foaming with meadowsweet!_ What do you hear as you pace the night Of breathless fear With straining ear? _The roar of the frothing white_ _Lasher of Otterburn weir!_ She Watches on the Shore She watches on the shore, Blinded by spindrift, though no craft could ride The swirling surf of the rampageous tide; And, at the ending of the bitter night, Finds at her feet in daybreak’s callous light Only a broken oar. Drifts The drift, a good three-feet at the doorsill— And she must dig herself out now! How he Had always loved to clear away the snow, Driving the shovel deep and heftily Heaving it over the half-buried wall With easy swing and sweltering cheeks aglow! Ay, she must dig herself out presently— A job she did not care about at all, A slow backbreaking job for her . . . while Will In a far sunscorched land Was even now, maybe, Digging his tank out of the silted sand. The Silver Cup She burnishes the silver cup He won for the half-mile; Then carefully she sets it up Beneath the shade of speckless glass That seems to twinkle mockingly, As with a smile To think that she Should still be limping after death With troubled breath, While at the goal her son Already rests beneath the grass, His race well run. Hill Music He climbs the benty brae Above Crag Lough where, rambling many a day In boyhood, he had rejoiced to hear the crake Of mallard and teal alighting on the lake That lapped the pillared basalt, and the call Of curlew in the quaggy slacks that lay North of the Roman Wall— Curlew whose fluting seemed to utter all His young heart’s inarticulate ecstasy: And now, on his last leave, again he hears Those voices of old years That pierce him to the core As, with a new intensity He listens, lest it chance that he Should hear that wild hill-music nevermore. The Night Grows Late . . . The night grows late; Yet he does not return: And, crouching by the glowing grate, She strains to hear the clanging of the gate Above the brawling of the burn in spate— She strains to hear Above the brawling of the burn The yard-gate clanging sharp and clear: And, as the dark hours pass and day draws near, The hope within her bosom chills to fear. The night grows late; Yet he does not return: The cinders smoulder in the grate, And lower sounds the swiftly-dwindling spate— Yet only the wind rattles the shut gate. His Word He swore he’d never leave me, come what might; Yet broke his word. If he were captured, or fell in the fight, I never heard. He went; and comes no more—but from my heart He has not stirred, Who, bidding me farewell, yet, for his part, Has kept his word. The Curtains As his hand draws apart the thick curtains to let in the light, He looks for the last time, it seems, on his own countryside And watches a kestrel that hovers in glittering height Over the fells where, but for the war, he would ride Through gossamered dew-sparkled bracken and blossoming ling; And though he rejoices at first to hear the lark sing As of old on such mornings, a shadow swoops over his eyes As a presage of quick-coming doom steals into his heart; And it seems that already in slumber unwaking he lies In a chamber whose curtains of darkness no hand draws apart. The Broken Tether He had mended it again, the silver chain— His earliest token Of love for her, that she so carelessly had broken— His skilful hand had mended it again. But now that death had snapt the living chain— The golden tether That through untroubled years had held their hearts together— What mortal hand could make it good again? He came to Her that Night He came to her that night Of wind and sleety rain When gust on gust the tempest Assailed the pane. With dark eyes glinting bright He stood beside the bed, A wan unearthly glimmer About his head: And suddenly his lips Moved, and he seemed to speak; When the wind lashed more wildly With frantic shriek Against the house, and drowned His accents as they fell: And she but caught the murmur— “I always meant to tell. . .” As, rushing down the dale, Yet louder raged the storm: And now she saw no longer That shadowy form: And when the morning broke Behind the blinded pane She listened to the patter Of pelting rain Wondering if in the end His heart to her were true: But what he came to tell her She never knew. The Waters of the Tyne When last he watched the waters of the Tyne With a boy’s heart fulfilling its delight In the tumultuous singing and the shine Of choral hillborn waters, amber-bright, How little he Imagined through what spates of misery, Crashing in swirling horror day and night, His soul must plunge in the ensuing years— How little his heart conceived what cruelty, Latent within the world’s heart even then, Should shatter in an hour the ecstasy Of living, while his frenzied fellowmen, Hag-ridden by dark dreams and frantic fears, Lured on to self-destruction, headlong hurled, In a blind fury wrecking their own world! Yet, still the amber waters of the Tyne Greeted the day with singing and with shine. . . The Gift And she had given him The little nickel torch That he had carelessly, As he approached the porch, Switched on that he might see The steps—the nickel torch, Her birthday gift, whose light Drew death from out the night. The Chimneystack He sees the old familiar chimney-stack Flourish its reek aloft Above the little croft To welcome him from foreign-service back: And, as he climbs the last stiff heather-brae, The tang of kindled peat Is wafted down to greet The old campaigner on his homeward way: And he recalls how often in far lands In dreaming mirage he Had seemed to smell and see The home-reek rising from the burning sands. The Letter Over mine-sown, torpedo-shuttled deeps, Undaunted by dive-bombers swooping low And all the old storm-perils of the sea, Some ancient tub has laboured hardily, And, winning into haven, brought to me In this frail envelope as white as snow Word of your welfare and your thought of me— Over dark wastes where danger never sleeps And death for ever ranges day and night, Safe in this envelope so frail and slight Has brought your heart to me. The Troth She had broken with him just before he sailed: Yet, though he had never heard From her a single word, When the last desperate attack had failed, And he lay riddled-through, Clearly beyond the surging gloom He saw her, sitting lonely in her room; And in a flash he knew Her heart to him was true. It Always Was His Pride . . . It always was his pride to be The first to hear the curlew call At blink of day or evenfall When April brought them from the sea. The curlew call unceasingly Day after day, for him in vain. . . O come September quick again And send them flying back to sea! Bread Through all his days, as boy and man From door to door he’d driven his van, Delivering bread for folk to eat; And he had earned through many a year Barely the means enough to rear His family of boys. . . Now they In some strange country far away, Some starving stricken land, maybe, For all he knew of them, lay dead, Or dying, even now, while he Still went from street to street Delivering bread. The Last Flight At last the broken body slept Beneath the shattered plane; And straight the starry spirit leapt To take the air again On wings of flashing light and swept Beyond the bounds of mortal night. Border Watch All night the roaring of the force That threshes down the narrow ghyll Has thundered through his head until Half-dazed he drowses on the hill: And he is scarcely startled when In the full moonshine there appears A band of reivers, armed with spears And swords and bows of other years: And, as an instant through his veins Runs the old Border-blood, full-spate, He turns to rouse before too late The dales to meet the hordes of hate: Then laughs, to think himself a ghost Of his forebears who, man by man, Kept watch and ward, when, clan on clan, Scots thieves the Border over-ran. The Cheerful Blaze With sleepy eyes and drowsy minds adaze The farmhands sat about the cheerful blaze Within the ingle, relishing the heat After long labour in the soaking sleet Throughout the bitter February day; And little dreamt the log-flames, leaping red Up the wide chimneystack, would serve to show In the black night a tell-tale glow To the lone raider, prowling over head, And so to sudden death give them away. The Watch The watch I had given him he lost The night before he left; and he Was worried, thinking what it cost— The money wasted that I’d spent; And how, without it, he would be Always uncertain how time went And never sure if he were late: And, as I saw him to the gate, His last words were “I cannot think How I mislaid it!” Yesterday I found it, slipped into a chink Between the bed-head and the wall— Too late, too late! for, where he lies With slumber-sealed unworried eyes In a strange country far away Time never troubles him at all. The Fluttered Doves When the bomb fell, the fluttered doves About the dovecote circled in affright, Tossing and tumbling in the starry night Whose glitter on their flashing pinions gleamed; Then one by one took courage to alight And go to roost once more; but little dreamed The whistling boy who scattered golden grain Would never call them from their cote again. The Desolate Heart Now she must see to the black-out, before She switches on the light, though she, If only her own safety were at stake, Would scarcely take The trouble to draw down a blind, Even though the sky were full of flying death, To save her useless body, now that he Can come to her no more. What matter, though a random bomb should break Her limbs and stop her breath . . . And might not she, perchance, awake to find That death had torn apart The curtains of her mind And stripped grief’s black-out from her desolate heart? Tantalus As, in the derelict boat That idly drifts in the soul-parching glare, He gazes overside With crazy stare And burning throat, He suddenly sees glass after glass Of good ale, amber-clear, Upon the sea afloat, And frothing tankards ride The salty swell: but when, with trembling fingers, He stoops to snatch them from the tide, One after one they pass Beyond his reach and vanish into air; While in his nostril lingers Only a ghostly whiff of phantom beer. The Link She set the door ajar And watched with memory-lighted eyes the star Burning in beryl air above Hawk Scar: And, as the lucency Transfused her spirit with serenity, She felt within her heart that oversea He, too, in alien skies Was even then watching the planet rise With dark and quiet home-remembering eyes And they, though severed far, Were linked still by the solace of the star They loved to watch of old above Hawk Scar. The Blind Man Beneath collapsing skies, Half-stunned, with sightless eyes, Awhile he stands; Then seeks with groping hands And numbly-fumbling feet To find a safe retreat From smashing bomb and shell— Puzzled that men with sight Whose eyes were blest with light Should turn the world to hell; And that their hearts should be Stone-blind with treachery. The Crest He had always meant to climb Helvellyan and from its high scarp look down On the grey houses of his native town, Huddled in its green dale: and, as the train Steams from the station, and he sees the sun Gilding the naked ridges after rain, He knows his eyes have looked for the last time On that familiar steep; yet vows, when war is done, His spirit, enfranchised in peace newly-won, Shall seek its lasting rest On that austere hill-crest. And This, the End . . . And this, the end—to lie Under a brazen sky, Adrift in a boat, while one by one His mates about him die— His shipmates one by one Perish, cursing the sun— The sun that in a brazen sky, A lidless white unblinking eye, Watches with pitiless stare His mates that one by one, Their lips burnt black in the salty glare, With wordless curses die! Alone Flesh of my flesh And bone of my bone, In a far country He fights all alone. Blood of my blood And mind of my mind, He fights with good comrades, But none of his kind: He fights with good comrades; Yet fights all alone ’Mid strangers who know not The things he has known— The home of his heart; The light on the lawn When gossamers quiver With dews of the dawn; The way the flames dance On the Winter hearthstone And gladden the faces Of folk of his own; His bonnie bay mare; The dog he loves best; The voice of the river That sang him to rest. Flesh of my flesh And bone of my bone, In a far country He fights all alone. Munitions I fill the shells all day, While somewhere far away He mans a gun to keep The enemy at bay: And, even when at night I snatch uneasy sleep, I share with him the fight; And in my heart I pray That in some desperate stand On the sheer brink of hell Some shell filled by my hand May serve him well. The Tarn He dives in a mountain-tarn, Bottomless, cold as death; Then struggles once more to the light With fluttering breath; And, shivering, with limbs of ice In the tingling Northern air, Towels his body and shakes The wet from his hair. . . And then he awakes, to find Himself in a nightmare land Still battling against the hot blast Of the scathing sand. The Children The children on the Common, gathering Blackberries on a gold September day, Pluck ripe fruit from each curving bramble-spray, Laughing and chattering happily. . . . When suddenly On swooping wing A Heinkel dives towards the ground And spatters bullets all around; Then, zooming, soars and goes upon its way. . . And now no happy chattering Gladdens the golden day. The Lime He always said, when he’d the time, He’d lop the boughs that overhung The window and shut out the light: And it would worry him at night When in the squalls of wind and rain Against the house a low branch swung And scrabbled twigs against the pane. . . When he’d the time. . . when he’d the time. . . Now with all time upon his hands He’s sleeping somewhere oversea; And worries naught about the tree, Although on nights of wind and rain, Unlopped, with lashing boughs it stands And scrabbles twigs against the pane. Snow With shrill delighted cries And sparkling eyes And kindled cheeks aglow The child plays in crisp crystalled snow— The child whose heart is yet too young to know Aught of the war, or how the Winter lies Heavy as death on that strange Northern land Where even now, maybe, in a last stand With frozen limbs his father fronts the foe In overwhelming drifts of fatal snow. The Spar Spent with the struggle in an icy sea, He had almost given up when, luckily, His fingers struck a drifting spar that swung Within their reach, and tightly to it clung Till he was rescued. . . And now drowsily He lies between warm blankets, wondering In what far country grew the living tree From which the baulk was hewn that chanced to bring Life in his grasp again—in what far land Had it been shaped, by whose unconscious hand, Cunningly wielding axe and adze, that he And it should come together in mid-sea? Scorched Earth The wheat that in his little patch he had sown And watched in April springing green, And with his hoe Row after row Had weeded clean, Until, full-grown, Long-strawed and plump of head, He had rejoiced to see it stand, The richest crop in all the land— The wheat that he had cherished as his own And hoped to garner—others came And harvested with flame: And now his treasure, charred and grey, A waste of smoking ashes lay, While he went hungry for a crust of bread. The Hour When the hour struck for him, although ’Twas tinkled and boomed out From belfries all about, I did not know— I did not know that it was his last hour; And, as it tolled from steeple and from tower, I only grieved that time should go so slow— Time that, for him, was gone for evermore, Too fleetly flown!—and in impatience rose To set ajar the door For his return, the door That his hand nevermore Should open or close. Under the Rowan Under the rowan He bade me farewell When the berries were ruddy Against the brown fell. Under the rowan I heard of his death; And the sweet creamy blossom Half-stifled my breath. Under the rowan Again burning red, A year since we parted I tryst with the dead. The Fire Now she, herself, must fetch the wood and coal To start the kitchen fire, which always he, Leaving her drowsing still, each morning lit To make for her an early cup of tea. Dear knows, she sorely missed that morning cup: And she was but numb-fingered when it came To fires; and always now the wood seemed damp; And, damp or dry, ’twas hard to start a flame. Ay, he’d a hand with fires, and other things— Things she’d scarce noticed till they came to part: And, lying wakeful in her lonely bed, She longed to feel his hand upon her heart. Over Well, it was over and done— Over for him, at least: For the battle still raged; and never he’d know Who’d lost and who’d won When it ceased— And yet, could the heart in his breast In cold indifference rest If the triumphing feet of the foe Trampled down all he loved best? The Driver Last year he drove in the Five Acre Field, Glowing beneath unclouded English skies, A tractor, reaping amber grain for bread— The bread of life. This year, instead, He drives a tank across strange lands that yield Another crop—a sterile crop that lies In dark swathes splashed with red. The Victim She worried sore lest he should fall In a far-distant fight And never come to her again: And yet, that very night, The victim of a raiding plane, Crushed under a bomb-shattered wall She lay; while he came safe through all. One Hour In time of peace afar They dwelt apart, unknown; But, when in total war Nations were overthrown, Together, from the strife Caught up in chance’s net, Beneath a wild red star At last they met; And, blending blood and breath, One hour of reckless life They snatched from death. Her Son She had to let him go, Although the rending pain Of his first coming tore her life again, She had to let him go. The Withered Branch In the full-foliaged tree a withered branch, Snapt by the tempest, droops its shrivelled leaves That rustle overhead: And, hearing them, the father quietly grieves, Remembering his son, in battle dead. The Quiet Heart And now her heart was quiet, nevermore To be torn, anguished, betwixt hope and fear: For now she knew; and neither hope nor fear Might trouble her dead heart for evermore. The Family A log whose rings record a century May in a hundred minutes be consumed; Yet even in briefer time this family That had outlived tree after forest-tree To perish in war’s holocaust was doomed. The Test He often wondered how he would meet The test: yet, when the instant came, All doubt was shrivelled in exultant flame As he stood up to death And rallied the retreat With his last breath, And, dying, kindled victory from defeat. The Adage Over and over again The adage runs through her mind, Beating a tune in her brain— “Fast bind, safe find!” For, though, when death wrenched them apart He was lost to her at the last, In the sanctuary of her heart She holds him fast. The Nurse While bombs crash all about And night is terror-torn, Within the shattered home She tends the labouring wife And calmly fights for life Till, in the house of death, A child is born. The Voyage “I’ll see you without fail Before you leave”— He wrote; and little reckoned he, Before the morning I was due to sail, Should be embarked upon a lonelier sea; And I, bereft, The one life left To grieve. Heart of My Heart . . . Heart of my heart, though you lie In a grave unknown Under an alien sky; Though heavy your slumber and deep, Know this, that you never may sleep, Heart of my heart, alone. Sole Survivor “You were the sole survivor? All the rest, When the ship struck the floating mine, went down? You should thank God, who rescued you. . .” “And left My mates to drown?” The Lesson God save us, when, the bread of life to earn, To forge death’s weapons boys and girls must learn! Employment In wartime no one need be unemployed— At least while aught is left to be destroyed. The Category A 1—and fit for anything— Fit to live out man’s three-score-years-and-ten, And then, again, Fit to be killed within this very hour, Caught in the murderous shower Of a machine-gun’s random spattering. The Dragons ’Twas “Once upon a time. . .” But now the war Brings back again those fabled days of yore And men may see with unastonished eyes Fire-belching dragons roaring through the skies. The Hit Though many bombs were dropt on Little Dene Before they fled our fighters hurriedly, They only left behind one casualty, The war-memorial on the village-green. The Weathercock Over the hill the sunlight on the vane Had always held his eyes; And loveliest it glanced when rainy skies Let through a shaft to strike it gold again, Pluming with light the challenging bright bird Who gallantly would veer To face the blast of Winter without fear, Or idly twirled when Summer breezes stirred. But now nor sun nor moon at any hour Shall turn to silver or gold The proud cock, lying broken in the mould Beneath the rubble of the shattered tower. The Alabaster Earl The alabaster earl who lay Beneath a gilded canopy For century on century Within the rich cathedral gloom, Now on the wreckage of his tomb Lies all exposed to common day. Companions He saw a sleek dark head Beside him in the sea, As, in the bombed ship’s wake, He struggled pluckily: And “What cheer, mate!” said he— “So, you’ve been made to take An extra bath, like me!” “We’ve both been dipped” he said “Together, you and me, Though it’s not our bath-night— A cold dip, too!” said he. . . When, swiftly out of sight The seal dived silently. The Bland Face The bland face in its frame Of tarnished gilt still beamed From the sole segment of the parlour-wall That yet remained, Smoke-smirched and water-stained, When as bombs plunged and screamed, The house went up in flame, And in that fury all— All else had perished—all Save the bland face that in its frame Of tarnished gilt still beamed. The Vagrant They have broken him in With duties and drill, Who all his life long Has wandered at will; And he marches in step With the rest of the line, Who rambled and shambled Through shower and shine: Yet, though with a bayonet They teach him to kill, With the hawk over Carter His heart hovers still Or lollops fleet-foot With the hare overhill. The Undertaker So often, following his father’s trade, Snug elm and oaken coffins he has made To keep his fellowmen, when they were laid To rest in earth, at least for a brief term, Secure against the all-devouring worm: Yet, unprotected on the desert stones His own corpse lies, while vultures pick his bones. The Spy Reptiles he’d always feared; and, as he crept Among the desert-scrub and chanced to lay His fingers on a clammy coil that slept Against a boulder, he let out, Unwittingly a stifled shout— When straight a bullet singing through the air Shattered his temple; and he bit the grey Hot desert-dust; but only half-aware That his own kind had given him away. Salvage When the house flared, it was too late to search His treasures out; so, seizing the first thing That came to hand, he rushed into the night: And by the ashes in the morning light He stands, his sole possession, a fluttering And angry parrot screeching on its perch. Fuel The unwanted poet’s works, in sheets unbound, Stacked in a London warehouse, quire on quire, At least did something to increase the blaze, Even though they had failed to set the Thames on fire. The Iron Days The iron days, that, with sharp prongs of pain Harrow our lives relentlessly, may serve To break the clodded mould; that once again The soil shall bear the green and living grain. So Brief a Life . . . So brief a life, and yet Lived to the full, till death Fired it to heaven-soaring ecstasy With flaming breath! The Heron ’Mid silver shallows of the moonlit mere With plumage silver-chased the heron stands, The spirit of that watery solitude, Still in his memory, as on that old night; And the calm image slakes with liquid light His parching fear, As now he marches on through torrid lands With courage unsubdued. His Letter She takes his letter from its envelope And reads his words with eyes that burn, The cheery letter, full of hope Of his return— The letter that has only reached her since the brief Official message came To burn her heart up in a shrivelling flame; And, as she reads his jesting words, she hears His voice, that to her breast brings the relief Of easing tears. The Miller’s Pond Had she the heart to go Down to the Miller’s Pond, now she would see The waterlilies in full blow, As on the day when he and she, Together, happily Looked on those chalices of lucent snow; And once again, maybe, Out of the reeds in flashing flight The kingfisher would dart, The dazzling spirit of their young delight Flickering to and fro Above the dreaming pond’s tranquility Of green and white— Had she the heart to go, Alone, had she the heart. . . The Homecoming The raft has stranded on the shingled beach And in a shroud of foam The dead man lies, who never thought to reach Again his native shore— The seas that held his living heart in thrall, The seas to whose stern service he gave all, The seas have borne him home, Have brought him home once more. Crocuses On his last leave he planted in the lawn A thousand bulbs: and in the light of dawn She sees a thousand gold upthrusting spears That stab her heart to tears. The Invalid It seemed that he through lingering years must lie And give up life with slowly gasping breath; When all at once wings swept the midnight sky And cut life short with swift mechanic death. The Cottage Garden This little plot of soil Held his heart’s love through all the evening hours When he with patient toil Won from the rich mould vegetables and flowers; And now with faithful will, Though in remembering eyes the quick tears start, His widow turns to till The garden into which he dug his heart. The Summer Moon He little thought that he Should ever dread to see The Summer moon ensilvering the tide On a still stormless night, Or that its lovely light Should ever seem a treachery Betraying him to slinking foes that glide Beneath the glittering tranquility! The Medal A son they had, begotten of their love To carry on their blood-stream, and to know A fuller life than theirs, more free of risk— A son they had, so short a while ago; But now, a metal disk Is all they have to show. Lives I think of that young life destroyed In its high-flying youth that ranged the sky In exultation. . . and hear, passing by, A tapping stick, where, bent beneath the load Of years, an old man dodders down the road. The Weeping Beech In the green gloom beneath the weeping beech Of the college-garden with abstracted eyes The convalescent soldier lies In seeming peace—yet still he hears the screech Of hurtling shells and the relentless roar Of tanks, and sees on that far hostile shore His comrades fighting still, and fervently Longs once again to be Sharing with them the hazards of the war. The Cost Only six planes, In all were lost— Official brains Assess the cost, As night by night Flight after flight On reckless raids Across the sky Our young sons fly To death propelled By whirring blades. . . Only six planes, In all, were lost— Official brains Assess the cost. The Young Poet Born to express his urgent sense of life In living words whose breath Should outlast death, While yet he strove to utter the delight Of earth-enchanted eyes, Caught in the senseless strife, Baffled he fell; and now he lies Dumb in the night. The Magpies _One for sorrow,_ _Two for mirth—_ The magpies fly Across the sky; And, as she sees them passing by Beyond the far hill-brow, In the new desolation and the dearth Of shattered life she knows that now No omen may restore Hope to her widowed heart for evermore. Hareshaw Linn At length the din Of battle dulls in dying ears. . . And now his spirit hears Once more the well-remembered roar Of Hareshaw Linn— Of Hareshaw Linn at flood, In snowfed torrent dashing down From the high fells: and now the blood From his young body seems to pour And mingle with the gleaming brown Untrammelled waters that ere long shall be, Merged in the sweeping current of the Tyne, Borne on towards the bitter brine Of the oblivious sea. Ashes He picks the bellows up and indolently Puffs the expiring fire Into reviving flame; And wishes that he might as easily Rouse with a breath His dead desire Of life, that crumbled instantly To ashes, when the message came Of his son’s death. The Woodpecker Waking at dawn within the ward, he hears The sharp staccato rattle Of a woodpecker on the hollow elm, Like a machine-gun’s brattle: And, as that tapping fills his ears, He knows that nevermore May he escape the memories of the war. Stars A moment since, the Winter sky Was a serenity of starry light: But now it roars with fury, as a flight Of bombers booms towards the sea And squadroned stars of red and green Fantastically fly, Ephemerally bright, Across the startled heavens—till, presently, The war-planes pass; and once again In majesty serene The eternal stars resume their ancient reign In the cold azure of untroubled night. And Still the Thrush Sings on . . . And still the thrush sings on That sang an hour ere dawn, Before the messenger, with hasty feet Spilling the dews That glimmered on the lawn, Brought the dread news— The thrush sings on, to greet The day, newborn, The day that in a breath Brought her heart’s death. The Folly On a high knoll was built A picturesque sham ruin in old days By the first owner, who could little guess That even crasser foolishness Should blast his lordly mansion to a blaze, And that its pride should fall In more fantastic ruin, after all. Dandelion Down She watches dandelion-down, Seed-laden, drifting through the air. . . And sees in agony acute Her son drop with his parachute Amid the barrage of a hostile town. Toys With model tank and bomber-aeroplane The little boy plays in all innocence Of how mankind destroys All that makes life worth living, in insane Infatuation with such deadly toys. In the End Throughout his days death seemed to be The one inveterate enemy; Yet, when life failed him in the end, He found in death a bosom-friend. The Last Leave He nearly missed the train, As he returned from leave To go to sea again: And, watching the cold rain, She, who is left to grieve, Murmurs in dull refrain Again and yet again Murmurs from dawn to eve— “He nearly missed the train. . .” The Canopy Billow on languorous billow, the water about the frail craft That, derelict, lazily drifted in the wash of the tropical sea Broke, spraying in irised brilliance, as idly it wallowed and swung, Over the motionless slumberers sprawled on the salt-lustred raft, While in the blue incandescence of a heaven that blazed without breath, Flashing on flickering pinions the shrill laughing herring-gulls hung Weaving and interweaving a wavering white canopy Above the nigh-foundering indolent waterlogged craft of death. The House Martins Wing-weary and with failing strength After their stormy flight By day and night From Africa, the martins reach at length Their English home, where, under cottage-eaves, Year after year they built their nest of clay And reared their little brood Among thick clustering creeper-leaves, Only to find the site A fire-charred ashen grey Bomb-devastated solitude. The Golden Mile As down the Golden Mile I strode Between the ranked laburnums, all the while My heart was with the men who’d walked that road And watched those fountains of rejoicing gold Tossing in sunlight of old April days: And wondered, now, as over parched Sun-blinded desert ways Day after day they marched, If still their hearts might hold Some grateful vision of the Golden Mile. For This? Was it for this our love Brought him to birth, And toiled to feed his frame With the good fruits of earth? Was it for this we charged His questing mind With all the quickening lore That poets have divined? Was it for this we watched His spirit’s fire Kindle to flame and soar In golden-winged desire? For this—that he might yield His eager breath In desperate fight, and go Before us down to death? The Broken Bridge The old bridge that for centuries With slender bow had spanned the glen, And whose smooth highroad served to ease The back and forward journeys of Far-faring and homecoming men Among the boulders of the stream A useless heap of rubble lies, Destroyed in one night, as the dream Of peaceful ways by which man hoped To fare one day to paradise. In Pride of Youth . . . In pride of youth he stormed the ramped hillbrow, Valiant for victory on the embattled height: Yet now His body, that rejoiced to feel the sun Filling his veins with vigour, caught in death And forced to yield its quick exultant breath In that old half-forgotten fight, Is but a skeleton Clutching a rusty gun. Rain Down pours the rain; And, as I hear it lashing at the pane, I almost pray That it may never cease Until it flood all lands, and every shore Be drowned in a new Deluge; and the old Diseased world be washed clean and sweet again Of human evil; and, in the clear and cold Light of the virgin day, The Ark of Righteousness shall rest at peace On Ararat once more. The Last Chapter So quietly The book had opened, and the story Seemed but to promise a monotony Of ventureless tranquility, Laced here and there with comedy: And little did he guess that he, Before time’s hand should lay him on the shelf, Should in the final chapter find himself Involved in a world-tragedy— That in the end his life should prove to be A tale of terror, not untouched of glory. The Salmon Dazed by the thunder, dazzled by the glitter, He sees them leap the lasher of the weir; And muses how each year The salmon leave the ocean’s salty surges In silver-shining schools And breast the waterfalls, to breed in quiet Of still freshwater pools— Musing, he watches, longing for the season When men, too, weary of the battle-strife, Will give up death, for life; And quit the bitter seas of self-destruction, To seek again the ways Of peace and labour gladly in the quiet Of full and fruitful days. The Triumph “That I should live to see such times” he said— “The world collapsing in barbarity! Well may we envy now the lucky dead Who in a semblance of security Lived out their lives and never knew the worst!” Just then with flare and roar and crashing burst The battle in fresh fury overhead: And now he pondered “Ay, they never knew The bitter worst—yet, something else missed, too, Who drowsed, secure; and did not live to see The spirit’s triumph in extremity; ’Mid stress of the last conflict flaming higher Even than destruction’s all-consuming fire! The Heart That Quivered The heart that quivered at the touch of sorrow, Now under blow on blow Of tragedy no longer even winces, Numbed to quiescence by the weight of woe— Numbed by the worldwide misery that burdens These black and bitter years— And yet the sudden lilt of children’s laughter May quicken it to tears. The Old Moon The old moon, haggard and cadaverous, Hangs in the iron vault of Polar sky That domes the snowy plain where corpses lie Frozen to passionless frigidity, Fallen enemy by fallen enemy, Who late, Locked in hot-blooded hate, Shattered the icy peace with furious Onslaught of mortal anger; till again, Their frenzy spent, the old moon rose, to see Immortal quiet reign Once more unchallenged on the Polar plain. O Wind! Though I have always loved Your murmur through the leaves, Golden with quivering lights On Summer eves; And on black Winter nights Rejoiced to hear you roar Through threshing boughs, O Wind Take pity now on me, O Wind of Memory, And blow no more! The Raven Stationed at the hill watching-post alone, Amid the slush of snows that slowly melt, He hears a raven, croaking on the stone That marks the site Of some half-legendary fight Betwixt long-perished tribes of Pict and Celt: And, though he knows The bird is only welcoming The coming of the Spring And the near passing of the Winter snows, Yet, now that war Threatens the dales and hills Of his beloved countryside once more, That raucous croaking fills His heart with cold foreboding and seems to be The very voice of all calamity. The Backward Glance Pausing amid war’s bloody business, He gives a hasty backward glance; And for a moment stands as in a trance, Staring into the old incredible years When only ordinary hopes and fears Troubled his usual happiness: And then once more He turns and desperately He strains with anxious eyes To peer into the future; but can see Nothing of what yet lies Beyond the fume and fury of the war: And yet that backward glancing has instilled His heart with hope old dreams may be fulfilled. The New Washed Sheets The new-washed sheets hang in the sun, To virgin whiteness freshly won; And she who toiled to make them white Watches them flapping in the light And wishes she As easily Might wash the old world clean and bright. As the First Blackbird Sang . . . As the first blackbird sang, Into the deep dark well Of his heart’s wordless grief The clear notes fell One after one, and, echoing, Between the dank walls rang, Until his heart to brief Forgetfulness was stirred, And with the happy bird Began to sing. England Aroused Serenely sails the swan in proud pretence Of bland indifference Towards her fluffy brood Of cheeping cygnets; yet, should foot intrude On the lake’s marge, she bridles in defence; And even the fox is eager to be gone Before the icy fury of the swan— Plumes arched in anger, and far-darting bill Whipping and snapping on the snaky neck; And slashing pinions lashing to a froth The tranquil waters. . . . So, in the lassitude Of armistice, it seemed that England still, Forgetful of her dreams, indifferently In foolish pride of cold placidity Brooded, till danger threatened all, when she Arose in swan-like wrath And plumed embattled majesty, to check The insolent menace of barbarity. Till Death . . . “Till death. . .”—but it was life, Suddenly flaring into worldwide strife, That parted us: and now each lonely heart Wonders in separation whether It may be death that in the end shall bind us Eternally together? The Change of Wind The rain-charged wind had shifted in the night, With instant icy breath transfixing all The drenched and dripping coppice; and in dawn-light It glittered like a frozen waterfall— Pendent from saplings bowed and sheathed in glass, Long tapering lustres drooping over the brake Of spangled fern and brittle-bladed grass And crystalled bramble bordering the lake— Transmuting the dark season’s dank distress That long had held us in despondency, Fevered and fretful, to a quietness Of cold pellucid immobility Forecasting to hearts conflict-torn and tossed The ultimate dark hour that brings surcease, When, at a change of wind, perpetual frost Shall seal earth’s trouble in unpassioned peace. Winter Wheat Between the new-turned tilth’s rich gleaming brown And the bleached tussocks of the open down Glitters an emerald slope of Winter wheat— The low November sunlight scintillating On each dew-sprinkled blade of living green— Even in the old year’s rout, betokening That earth knows no defeat; That still from seed unseen Urge of renewal quickens unabating With the fresh promise of resurgent Spring. The News “Here is the news” proclaims the calm announcer: Yet he might spare his breath; For it is news no longer, this old story, This day-by-day reiterated tragedy Of the world’s endless agony And young men’s lives annihilated by Indifferent, undiscriminating death. The Lull The sea-green beanfield tosses with the breeze A scarlet foam of poppies in the sun; And now the soldier, momentarily at ease Beside his A.A. gun, Recalls the surf of the Atlantic seas That sweep the skerries of the Hebrides; And in his heart he longs to be Far from war-ravaged Normandy, In the old life where he need only brave Perils of wind and wave. The Victors Ploughing the waste, we turn up from the clay The bones of warriors in some old affray Fallen: but, what they fought for in their day, Or who the victors were, now none can say. No Room in the Inn No room in the inn this starless Christmas night For fugitives from Herod’s soldiery Who ruthlessly Slaughter the innocents in every land— No room, no shelter in the inn Whose rent walls roofless stand Amid the havoc and the din, Blasted and charred; while, flight on flight, Hell’s squadrons sweep the sky, Hurtling destruction through the air And scattering Cascades of devastating fire— No room, no shelter anywhere For the homeless Mother in her travailing, And for her Son no welcoming, Not even from the kindly beasts, who lie, Carcases, smouldering Within the burnt-out byre! The Happy Flight A multitude of starlings fly Above me, flecking the blue sky As far as eye can see With dark swift-shuttled patternings Of whirring and exultant wings: And all the crystal morning rings With their wild whistling glee. With sudden soft explosive sound They rose as one bird from the ground Where in the new-turned earth They followed the loam-cleaving share, Moved by one impulse to declare Their life’s delight and fill the air With frenzy of shrill mirth. And I, who plodded slowly by, Brooding on war’s long agony, Felt my heart flutter, too, With instant urge to scale the height Of heaven with them in happy flight And revel in the glittering light Of Winter’s windy blue. Bethlehem Even though the fates condemn Man’s heart to Calvary, Still may his spirit face unflinchingly The final agony, Recalling on the cross his Bethlehem. Like Cage Bred Birds Released Like cage-bred birds released by accident Into the unknown hazards of the night, Our long peace-sheltered spirits in affright Fluttered in darkness laced with livid light When the world shattered in tempestuous strife, And our home-loving hearts by panic rent Longed to resume the old secure sweet life Behind the accustomed bars: Yet, in the tempest tossed, our wings at length Have gained fresh strength To ride the terrors of the unknown skies, And through torn thunderclouds our eyes Have kindled to new vision at the sight Of unfamiliar stars. Hill Waters As the skeins of sleep unravel And, from slumber slowly waking, Light in golden glints is breaking Through his mind, so long benighted, Now he hears with heart delighted Crystal streams that swiftly travel Over shoals of amber gravel— Crystal streams, in cold airs springing From snow-mantled mountain-shoulders That have tumbled over boulders Down steep braes of bent and heather, In celestial April weather With their amber light and singing New life to his spirit bringing: And his heart, that, in the slaughter Felt death’s pang, once more rejoices As again he hears hill-voices— He, who even now lay dying, Waked in paradise, and lying, Far beyond the field of slaughter, By the streams of living water. TRANSCRIBER NOTES Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed. Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained. It was hard to determine across page breaks whether there was a stanza break or not. [The end of _The Outpost_ by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson]