PURPLE and grey the vacant moor lies spread
And all the storms of heaven sweep and cry
Among the barrows of forgotten dead,
Who died as we shall die.
There dwelt of yore, upon such desert land,
Strange merchants of a stranger merchandise,
Who stole the Winds from out God's hollowed hand
And loosed them, at a price.
Thither mayhap the reiving marchman rode
And bought a gale to ruffle the red cock
That he would set upon his foe's abode,
And leave no standing stock.
And thither, with hearts tossing to and fro
On stormy seas, came foolish maids and fain,
And chaffered for a favouring wind to blow
Their lovers home again.
Oh were such mighty witches living still,
Those whistle tempests and light airs obeyed,
We have more need the wind should do our will
Than e'er had love-sick maid.
At body's peril and in soul's despite
We would give all we had of gold and gem
For a west wind, where our beloved fight,
To blow the reek from them.
But these wind-pedlars with their hard-earned fee
Mocked and forsaken of the fiend their sire
'Spite of all powers of spell and gramarye
Passed long ago in fire.
So to High God let humble prayers be said,
From bursting hearts that wait in vain, and He
In His good time, when all your dears are dead,
May stoop to answer ye.

Dulce et Decorum?

WE buried of our dead the dearest one—
Said each to other, "Here then let him lie,
And they may find the place, when all is done,
From the old may tree standing guard near by."
Strong limbs whereon the wasted life blood dries,
And soft cheeks that a girl might wish her own,
A scholar's brow, o'ershadowing valiant eyes,
Henceforth shall pleasure charnel-worms alone.
For we, that loved him, covered up his face,
And laid him in the sodden earth away,
And left him lying in that lonely place
To rot and moulder with the mouldering clay.
The hawthorn that above his grave head grew
Like an old crone toward the raw earth bowed,
Wept softly over him, the whole night through,
And made him of her tears a glimmering shroud.
· · · · · ·
Oh Lord of Hosts, no hallowed prayer we bring,
Here for Thy grace is no importuning,
No room for those that will not strive nor cry
When loving kindness with our dead lies slain:
Give us our fathers' heathen hearts again,
Valour to dare, and fortitude to die.

Succory

IN a strange burial ground
Searching strange graves above,
By a sure sign I found
Where lay my love.
Bluer than summer skies,
Than summer seas more blue,
Looked from the dust his eyes
Whose death I rue.
Sweet eyes of my sweet slain
Lost all these weary hours,
Lo, I beheld again
Turned into flowers.