Poems, 1914-1919. Baring Maurice

      Here is no waste,

      No burning Might-have-been,

      No bitter after-taste,

      None to censure, none to screen,

      Nothing awry, nor anything misspent;

      Only content, content beyond content,

      Which hath not any room for betterment.

      God, Who had made you valiant, strong and swift,

      And maimed you with a bullet long ago,

      And cleft your riotous ardour with a rift,

      And checked your youth’s tumultuous overflow,

      Gave back your youth to you,

      And packed in moments rare and few

      Achievements manifold

      And happiness untold,

      And bade you spring to Death as to a bride,

      In manhood’s ripeness, power and pride,

      And on your sandals the strong wings of youth.

      He let you leave a name

      To shine on the entablatures of truth,

      Forever:

      To sound forever in answering halls of fame.

      For you soared onwards to that world which rags

      Of clouds, like tattered flags,

      Concealed; you reached the walls of chrysolite,

      The mansions white;

      And losing all, you gained the civic crown

      Of that eternal town,

      Wherein you passed a rightful citizen

      Of the bright commonwealth ablaze beyond our ken.

      Surely you found companions meet for you

      In that high place;

      You met there face to face

      Those you had never known, but whom you knew;

      Knights of the Table Round,

      And all the very brave, the very true,

      With chivalry crowned;

      The captains rare,

      Courteous and brave beyond our human air;

      Those who had loved and suffered overmuch,

      Now free from the world’s touch.

      And with them were the friends of yesterday,

      Who went before and pointed you the way;

      And in that place of freshness, light and rest,

      Where Lancelot and Tristram vigil keep

      Over their King’s long sleep,

      Surely they made a place for you,

      Their long-expected guest,

      Among the chosen few,

      And welcomed you, their brother and their friend,

      To that companionship which hath no end.

      And in the portals of the sacred hall

      You hear the trumpet’s call,

      At dawn upon the silvery battlement,

      Re-echo through the deep

      And bid the sons of God to rise from sleep,

      And with a shout to hail

      The sunrise on the city of the Grail: