War's Embers, and Other Verses — Context and Discussion

O wind that tosses free The children’s hair; Scatters the blossom of Apple and pear; Blow in my heart, touch me, Gladden me here.

You have seen so many things-- Blow in and tell Tales of white sand and golden ’Gainst the sea swell. Bring me fine meadow-thoughts, Fresh orchard smell.

Here we must stare through glass To see the sun-- Stare at flat ceilings white Till day is done: While you, sunshine, starshine, May out and run.

Blow in and bring us all Dear home-delight-- Green face of the Spring earth, Blue of deep night. Blot each of our faces From the others’ sight.

Out of the line we rest in villages Quiet indeed, where heal the spirit’s scars; But even so, lapped deep in sunshine and ease, We are haunted for ever by the shapes of wars.

Green in the sun they lie, secret, deserted, Lovely against the blue the summits show, Where once the bright steel sang, the red blood spurted, And brave men cowed their terrors long ago.

By day their life was easy; but at night, Even now, one hears strange rustlings in the bush; And, straining tensely doubtful ear and sight, The stealthy moving ere the sudden rush;

And flinches from the spear. War’s just-bright embers That Earth still keeps and treasures for the pride In sacrifice there shown; with love remembers The beauty and quick strength of men that died.

Who died as we may die, for Freedom, beauty Of common living, calmly led in peace, Yet took the flinty road and hard of duty, Whose end was life abundant and increase.

But--when Heaven’s gate wide opening receives us Victors and full of song, forgetting scars; Shall we see to stir old memories, to grieve us, Heaven’s never-yet-healed sores of Michael’s wars?

The tossing poplar in the wind Shows underleaf of silver-white; The roughness of the wind unkind Torments her out of all delight. But O that he were here Whose blows and whose caresses alike were dear!

The great oak to the tearing blast Stands steady with strong arms held wide, So over him my anger passed, When his rough usage hurt my pride. But O that once again I might arouse that passion, endure that pain!

Sweet smelling, sweet to handle, fair of hue Tobacco is. The soldier everywhere Takes it as friend, its friendliness to share, Whether in fragrant wreaths it mount faint blue In dug-out low, or surreptitiously to Parapet in rimy night, from hidden lair Of sentry; staying hunger, stilling fear-- The old dreams of comfort bringing anew. For from that incense grows the stuff of dreams, And in those clouds a drowsing man may find All that was ever sweet to his starved mind, Heart long denied--dear friends, hills, horses, trees, Slopes of brown ploughland, sunset’s fading gleams ... The bane of care, the spur to memories.

DAY-BOYS AND CHORISTERS

(TO THE BOYS OF KING’S SCHOOL, GLOUCESTER, 1900-1905)

Under the shade of the great Tower Where pass the goodly and the wise, Year in, year out, winter and summer, With scufflings and excited cries, Football rages, not told in pages Of Fame whereof the wide world hears; A battle of divided Empire-- The day-boys and the choristers.

CHORUS So here’s to the room where the dark beams cross over, And here’s to the cupboard where hides the cane; The paddock and fives-court, great chestnut, tall tower-- When Fritz stops his fooling we’ll see them again.

Golf balls, tennis balls, cricket and footballs, Balls of all sizes and sorts were sent Soaring by wall and arch and ivy High, high over to banishment. (Poor owner that loses!) And oh! but the bruises, Scars, and red hacks to cover the brave Shins of the boldest, when up and down playground Victory surged, Victory, edged like a wave.

CHORUS So here’s to the room where the dark beams cross over, And here’s to the cupboard where hides the cane, The paddock and fives-court, great chestnut, tall tower-- When Fritz stops his fooling we’ll see them again.

Little they knew, those boys, how in Flanders And plains of France, in another day A trial dreadful of nerve and sinew For four long years should test alway That playtime pluck, that yet should carry Them through Hell’s during worst, and how Europe should honour them, a whole world praise them, Though Death tore their bodies and laid them low.

CHORUS So here’s to the room where the dark beams cross over, And here’s to the cupboard where hides the cane; The paddock and fives-court, great chestnut, tall tower-- When Fritz stops his fooling we’ll see them again.

When Spring comes here with early innocency Of pale high blue, they’ll put Revally back. The passers-by carelessly amused will see Breakfastless boys killing the patient sack.

And there will be manœuvres where the violet shows, Hiding its dark fervour, guarding its flame, Where I shall lie and stare while the mystery grows Huge and more huge, till the Sergeant calls my name.

(TO THE MEN OF THE 2/5 GLOUCESTER REGIMENT)

When once I sat in estaminets With trusty friends of mine, We drank to folk in England And pledged them well in wine,

While thoughts of Gloucester filled us-- Roads against windy skies At sunset, Severn river, Red inn-blinds, country cries.

That stung the heart with sorrow And barbéd sweet delight At Riez Bailleul, Laventie, At Merville, many a night.

Now I am over Channel I cannot help but think Of friends who stifle longing With friendly food and drink.

“Where’s Gurney now, I wonder, That smoked a pipe all day; Sometimes that talked like blazes, Sometimes had naught to say?”

And I, at home, must wonder Where all my comrades are: Those men whose Heart-of-Beauty Was never stained by War.

Tall poplars in the sun Are quivering, and planes, Forgetting the day gone, Its cold un-August rains; But with me still remains The sight of beaten corn, Crushed flowers and forlorn, The summer’s wasted gains-- Yet pools in secret lanes Abrim with heavenly blue Life’s wonder mirror anew. I must forget the pains Of yesterday, and do Brave things--bring loaded wains The bare brown meadows through, I must haste, I must out and run, Wonder, till my heart drains Joy’s cup, as in high champagnes Of blue, where great clouds go on With white sails free from stains Full-stretched, on fleckless mains-- With captain’s joy of some proud galleon.

Thick lie in Gloucester orchards now Apples the Severn wind With rough play tore from the tossing Branches, and left behind Leaves strewn on pastures, blown in hedges, And by the roadway lined.

And I lie leagues on leagues afar To think how that wind made Great shoutings in the wide chimney, A noise of cannonade-- Of how the proud elms by the signpost The tempest’s will obeyed--

To think how in some German prison A boy lies with whom I might have taken joy full-hearted Hearing the great boom Of Autumn, watching the fire, talking Of books in the half gloom.

O wind of Ypres and of Severn Riot there also, and tell Of comrades safe returned, home-keeping Music and Autumn smell. Comfort blow him and friendly greeting, Hearten him, wish him well!

Severn’s most fair to-day! See what a tide of blue She pours, and flecked alway With gold, and what a crew Of seagulls snowy white Float round her to delight Villagers, travellers. A brown thick flood is hers In winter when the rains Wash down from Midland plains, Halting wayfarers, Low meadows flooding deep With torrents from the steep Mountains of Wales and small Hillocks of no degree-- Streams jostling to the sea; (Wrangling yet brotherly). Blue June has altered all-- The river makes its fall With murmurous still sound, Past Pridings faëry ground, And steep-down Newnham cliff.... O Boys in trenches, if You could see what any may (Escaping town for the day), Strong Severn all aglow, But tideless, running slow: Far Cotswolds all a-shimmer, Blue Bredon leagues away-- Huge Malverns, farther, dimmer ... Then you would feel the fire Of the First Days inspire You, when, despising all Save England’s, honour’s call, You dared the worst for her: Faced all things without fear, So she might stand alway A free Mother of men; High Queen as on this day. There would flood through you again The old faith, the old pride Wherein our fathers died, Whereby our land was builded and dignified.

Like softly clanging cymbals were Plane-trees, poplars Autumn had Arrayed in gloriously sad Garments of beauty wind-astir; It was the day of all the dead--

Toussaints. In sombre twos and threes Between those coloured pillars went Drab mourners. Full of presences The air seemed ... ever and anon rent By a slow bell’s solemnities.

The past year’s gloriously dead Came, folk dear to that rich earth Had given them sustenance and birth, Breath and dreams and daily bread, Took labour-sweat, returned them mirth.

Merville across the plain gleamed white, The thronged still air gave never a sound, Only, monotonous untoned The bell of grief and lost delight. Gay leaves slow fluttered to the ground.

Sudden, that sense of peace and prayer Like vapour faded. Round the bend Swung lines of khaki without end.... Common was water, earth and air; Death seemed a hard thing not to mend.

The early dew was still untrodden, Flawless it lay on flower and blade, The last caress of night’s cold fragrance A freshness in the young day made.

The velvet and the silver floor Of the orchard-close was gold inlaid With spears and streaks of early sunlight-- Such beauty makes men half afraid.

An old man at his heap of stones Turned as I neared his clinking hammer, Part of the earth he seemed, the trees, The sky, the twelve-hour heat of summer.

“Fine marnen, zür!” And the earth spoke From his mouth, as if the field dark red On our right hand had greeted me With words, that grew tall grain instead.

Oh, years ago, and near forgot! Yet, as I walked the Flemish way, An hour gone, England spoke to me As clear of speech as on that day; Since peasants by the roadway working Hailed us in tones uncouth, and one Turned his face toward the marching column, Fronted, took gladness from the sun.

And straight my mind was set on singing For memory of a wrinkled face, Orchards untrodden, far to travel, Sweet to find in my own place.

The yellow willow leaves that float Down Severn after Autumn rains Take not of trouble any note-- Lost to the tree, its joys and pains.

But man that has a thousand ties Of homage to his place of birth, Nothing surrenders when he dies; But yearns for ever to his earth--

Red ploughlands, trees that friended him, Warm house of shelter, orchard peace. In day’s last rosy influence dim They flock to us without a cease;

Through fast-shut doors of olden houses In soundless night the dear dead come, Whose sorrow no live folk arouses, Running for comfort hither home.

Though leaves on tide may idly range, Grounding at last on some far mire-- Our memories can never change: We are bond, we are ruled with Love’s desire.

If I were on the High Road That runs to Malvern Town, I should not need to read, to smoke, My fear of death to drown; Watching the clouds, skies, shadows dappling The sweet land up and down.

But here the shells rush over, We lie in evil holes, We burrow into darkness Like rabbits or like moles, Men that have breathed the Severn air, Men that have eyes and souls.

To-day the grass runs over With ripples like the sea, And men stand up and drink air Easy and sweet and free; But days like this are half a curse, And Beauty troubles me.

The shadows under orchards there Must be as clear and black-- At Minsterworth, at Framilode-- As though we had all come back; Were out at making hay or tedding, Piling the yellow stack.

The gardens grow as freshly On Cotswold’s green and white; The grey-stone cottage colours Are lovely to the sight, As we were glad for dreams there, Slept deep at home at night;

While here we die a dozen deaths A score of times a day; Trying to keep up heart and not To give ourselves away. “Two years longer,” “Peace to-morrow,” “Some time yet,” they say!

Ink black and lustreless may hold A passion full of living fire: Spring’s green the Autumn does enfold-- Things precious hide their bright in the mire.

And a whole county’s lovely pride In one small book I found that made More real the pictured Severn side Than crash and shock of cannonade.

Beneath, more strong than that dread noise The talk I heard of trees and men, The still low-murmuring Earth-voice ... God send us dreams in peace again.

I have forgotten where the pleasure lay In resting idle in the summer weather, Waiting on Beauty’s power my spirit to sway, Since Life has taken me and flung me hither;

Here where gray day to day goes dully on, So evenly, so grayly that the heart Not notices nor cares that Time is gone That might be jewelled bright and set apart.

And yet, for all this weight, there stirs in me Such music of Joy when some perceivéd flower Breaks irresistible this crust, this lethargy, I burn and hunger for that immortal hour

When Peace shall bring me first to my own home, To my own hills; I’ll climb and vision afar Great cloud-fleets line on line up Severn come, Where winds of Joy shall cleanse the stain of war.

He’s gone, and all our plans Are useless indeed. We’ll walk no more on Cotswold Where the sheep feed Quietly and take no heed.

His body that was so quick Is not as you Knew it, on Severn river Under the blue Driving our small boat through.

You would not know him now ... But still he died Nobly, so cover him over With violets of pride Purple from Severn side.

Cover him, cover him soon! And with thick-set Masses of memoried flowers-- Hide that red wet Thing I must somehow forget.

No colour yet appears On trees still summer fine, The hill has brown sheaves yet, Bare earth is hard and set; But autumn sends a sign In this as in other years.

For birds that flew alone And scattered sought their food Gather in whirring bands;-- Starlings, about the lands Spring cherished, summer made good, Dark bird-clouds soon to be gone.

But above that windy sound A deeper note of fear All daylight without cease Troubles the country peace; War birds, high in the air, Airplanes shadow the ground.

Seawards to Africa Starlings with joy shall turn, War birds to skies of strife, Where Death is ever at Life; High in mid-air may burn Great things that trouble day.

Their time is perilous, Governed by Fate obscure; But when our April comes About the thatch-eaved homes,-- Cleaving sweet air, the sure Starlings shall come to us.

The moon, one tree, one star, Still meadows far, Enwreathed and scarfed by phantom lines of white. November’s night Of all her nights, I thought, and turned to see Again that moon and star-supporting tree. If some most quiet tune had spoken then; Some silver thread of sound; a core within That sea-deep silentness, I had not known Ever such joy in peace, but sound was none-- Nor should be till birds roused to find the dawn.

Why, I am on fire now, and tremulous With sense of Beauty long denied; the first Opening of floodgate to the glorious burst Of Freedom from the Fate that limits us To work in darkness pining for the light, Thirsting for sweet untainted draughts of air, Clouds sunset coloured, Music ... O Music’s bare White heat of silver passion fiercely bright! While sweating at the foul task, we can taste No Joy that’s clean, no Love but something lets It from its power; the wisest soul forgets What’s beautiful, or delicate, or chaste. Orpheus drew me (as once his bride) from Hell. If wisely, her or me, the Gods can tell.

I shot him, and it had to be One of us! ’Twas him or me. “Couldn’t be helped,” and none can blame Me, for you would do the same.

My mother, she can’t sleep for fear Of what might be a-happening here To me. Perhaps it might be best To die, and set her fears at rest.

For worst is worst, and worry’s done. Perhaps he was the only son ... Yet God keeps still, and does not say A word of guidance any way.

Well, if they get me, first I’ll find That boy, and tell him all my mind, And see who felt the bullet worst, And ask his pardon, if I durst.

All’s a tangle. Here’s my job. A man might rave, or shout, or sob; And God He takes no sort of heed. This is a bloody mess indeed.

Wakened by birds and sun, laughter of the wind, A man might see all heart’s desire by raising His pillowed sleepy head (still apt for lazing And drowsy thought)--but then a green most kind Waved welcome, and the rifted sky behind Showed blue, whereon cloud-ships full-sailed went racing, Man to delight and set his heart on praising The Maker of all things, bountiful-hearted, kind.

May Hill, that half-revealéd tree-clad thing, Maisemore’s delightful ridge, where Severn flowing Nourished a wealth of lovely wild things blowing Sweet as the air--Wainlodes and Ashleworth To northward showed, a land where a great king Might sit to receive homage from the whole earth.

(TO THE NURSES OF WARD 24, BANGOUR WAR HOSPITAL, NEAR EDINBURGH)

With quiet tread, with softly smiling faces The nurses move like music through the room; While broken men (known, technically, as “cases”) Watch them with eyes late deep in bitter gloom, As though the Spring were come with all the Graces, Or maiden April walked the ward in bloom.

Men that have grown forgetful of Joy’s power, And old before their time, take courtesy So sweet of girl or woman, as if some flower Most strangely fair of Spring were suddenly Thick in the woods at Winter’s blackest hour-- The gift unlocked for--lovely Charity.

Their anguish they forget, and, worse, the slow Corruption of Joy’s springs; now breathe again The free breath was theirs so long ago. Courage renewed makes mock at the old pain. Life’s loveliness brings tears, and a new glow. Somehow their sacrifice seems not in vain.

Lying awake in the ward Long hours as any must, I wonder where the dust Comes from, the Dust, the Dust! That makes their life so hard,-- The nurses, who must rub The soon appearing crust Of green on the bright knob.

And little bits of fluff, Dull white upon the floor, Most soft, most curious stuff That sidles to the door When no one sees, and makes Deep wrinkles and heart-breaks; Light sighs and curses rough.

Oh! if a scientist Of warm and kindly heart Should live a while apart, (Old Satan’s tail to twist,) Poring on crucibles, Vessels uncanny, till He won at last to Hell’s Grand secret of ill-will-- How Fluff comes and how Dust, Then nurses all would paint Cheeks pretty for his sake; Or stay in prayer awake All night for that great Saint Of Cleanliness, that bright Devoted anchorite; Brave champion and true knight.

A soldier looked at me with blue hawk-eyes, With kindly glances sorrow had made wise, And talked till all I’d ever read in books Melted to ashes in his burning looks; And poets I’d despise and craft of pen, If, while he told his coloured wonder-tales Of Glasgow, Ypres, sea mist, spouting whales (Alive past words or power of writing men), My heart had not exulted in his brave Air of the wild woodland and sea wave; Or if, with each new sentence from his tongue, My high-triumphing spirit had not sung As in some April when the world was young.

4. COMPANION--NORTH-EAST DUGOUT

He talked of Africa, That fat and easy man. I’d but to say a word, And straight the tales began.

And when I’d wish to read, That man would not disclose A thought of harm, but sleep; Hard-breathing through his nose.