SPRING IN WAR-TIME
Now the sprinkled blackthorn snow
Lies along the lovers’ lane
Where last year we used to go—
Where we shall not go again.
In the hedge the buds are new,
By our wood the violets peer—
Just like last year’s violets, too,
But they have no scent this year.
Every bird has heart to sing
Of its nest, warmed by its breast;
We had heart to sing last spring,
But we never built our nest.
Presently red roses blown
Will make all the garden gay . . .
Not yet have the daisies grown
On your clay.
1916.
THE MOTHER’S PRAYER
This was my little son
Who leapt and laughed on my knee:
Body we made with love,
Soul made with love by Thee.
This was the mystery
In which I worshipped Thy grace;
This was the sign to me—
The unveiling of Thy face . . .
This, that lies under Thy skies
Naked as on that day
When the floor of heaven gave way
And the glory of God shone through,
When the world was made new
And Thy word was made flesh for me . . .
He lies there, bare to Thy skies,
O Lord God, see!
Body that was in mine
A secret, sacred spell,
Little hands I have kissed
Trampled by beasts in Hell . . .
Growing beauty and grace . . .
Oh, head that lay on my bosom . . .
Broken, battered, shattered . . .
Body that grew like a blossom!
All that was promised me
On my life’s royal day.
Every promise broken—
Only a ghost, and clay!
O God, I kneel at Thy feet;
I lay my hands in Thine:
Thou gavest Thy Son for the world,
And shall I not give mine?
Only—O God, have pity!
All my defences are down:
God, I accept the Cross,
Let him have the Crown!