Poems of To-Day: an Anthology. Various

        When we fought campaigns (in the long Christmas rains)

          With soldiers spread in troops on the floor,

        I shot as straight as you, my losses were as few,

          My victories as many, or more.

        And when in naval battle, amid cannon's rattle,

          Fleet met fleet in the bath,

        My cruisers were as trim, my battleships as grim,

          My submarines cut as swift a path.

        Or, when it rained too long, and the strength of the strong

          Surged up and broke a way with blows,

        I was as fit and keen, my fists hit as clean,

          Your black eye matched my bleeding nose.

        Was there a scrap or ploy in which you, the boy,

          Could better me? You could not climb higher,

        Ride straighter, run as quick (and to smoke made you sick)

          . . . But I sit here, and you're under fire.

        Oh, it's you that have the luck, out there in blood and muck:

          You were born beneath a kindly star;

        All we dreamt, I and you, you can really go and do,

          And I can't, the way things are.

        In a trench you are sitting, while I am knitting

          A hopeless sock that never gets done.

        Well, here's luck, my dear;—and you've got it, no fear;

          But for me . . . a war is poor fun.

        His wage of rest at nightfall still

          He takes, who sixty years has known

        Of ploughing over Cotsall hill

          And keeping trim the Cotsall stone.

        He meditates the dusk, and sees

          Folds of his wonted shepherdings

        And lands of stubble and tall trees

          Becoming insubstantial things.

        And does he see on Cotsall hill—

          Thrown even to the central shire—

        The funnelled shapes forbidding still

          The stranger from his cottage fire?

        These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,

          Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.

        The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,

          And sunset, and the colours of the earth.

        These had seen movement, and heard music; known

          Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;

        Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;

          Touched flowers and furs, and cheeks. All this is ended.

        There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter

        And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,

          Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance

        And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white

          Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,

        A width, a shining peace, under the night.

        If I should die, think only this of me:

          That there's some corner of a foreign field

        That is for ever England. There shall be

          In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

        A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

          Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

        A body of England's, breathing English air,

          Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

        And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

          A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

            Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

        Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

          And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

            In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

        With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,

        England mourns for her dead across the sea.

        Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,

        Fallen in the cause of the free.

        Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal

        Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.

        There is music in the midst of desolation

        And a glory that shines upon our tears.

        They went with songs to the battle, they were young,

        Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

        They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,

        They fell with their faces to the foe.

        They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

        Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

        At the going down of the sun and in the morning

        We will remember them.

        They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;

        They sit no more at familiar tables of home;

        They have no lot in our labour of the day-time:

        They sleep beyond England's foam.

        But where our desires are and our hopes profound,

        Felt

Скачать книгу