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Often, on afternoons grey and sombre, When clouds lie low and dark with rain, A random bell strikes a chord familiar And I hear the Oxford chimes again. Never I see a swift stream running Cold and full from shore to shore, But I think of Isis, and remember The leaping boat and the throbbing oar. O my brothers, my more than brothers— Lost and gone are those days indeed: Where are the bells, the gowns, the voices, All that made us one blood and breed? Gone—and in many an unknown pitfall You have swinked, and died like men— And here I sit in a quiet chamber Writing on paper with a pen. O my brothers, my more than brothers— Big, intolerant, gallant boys! Going to war as into a boatrace, Full of laughter and fond of noise! I can imagine your smile: how eager, Nervous for the suspense to be done— And I remember the Iffley meadows, The crew alert for the starting gun. Old grey city, O dear grey city, How young we were, and how close to Truth! We envied no one, we hated no one, All was magical to our youth. Still, in the hall of the Triple Roses, The cannel casts its ruddy span, And still the garden gate discloses The message Manners Makyth Man. Then I recall that an Oxford college, Setting a stone for those who have died, Nobly remembered all her children— Even those on the German side. That was Oxford! and that was England! Fight your enemy, fight him square; But in justice, honour, and pity Even the enemy has his share. November 1916. |
FOR THE PRESENT TIME
| "If the trumpet speak with an uncertain sound, Who shall prepare himself for the battle?" |
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In all this time of agony How does this mighty nation drift: Our blood is red upon the sea, The foe is merciless and swift. We doubt, we sway, And day by day Our hearts are thicker with distrust.... We would, should, could, can, may—we must! So many divers voices call, And cloud our souls with dull dismay: O when shall cry, clear over all, The Voice that none can disobey? My country, speak! In no oblique Uncertain tone; be this our cry: If Honour is not ours, we die. My country, speak! They lie who say That we are soft with love of home; For still, in all the ancient way, Our ships shall kiss the perilled foam. Yea, slow to wrath, But lo, our path Leads straight at last, and blithe to tread: We shall live better, having bled. March 1917. |
AMERICA, 1917
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Dynamo of strength uncurbed, Boundless might, undisciplined; Energies still undisturbed, Power, unharnessed as the wind— Huge, inchoate commonweal, Lo, at last we catch the thrill: Now we found and forge the steel, Scoop a channel for the will. Here we stand; and destiny Now admits us no retreat: Hearts are braced from sea to sea, Hark! I hear the marching feet! Hills are moved; streams faster run; Plumper kernels fill the wheat, Now we dream and do as one.... Hark! I hear the marching feet! March 1917. |