Here where gray day to day goes dully on,
So evenly, so grayly that the heart
Not notices nor cares that Time is gone
That might be jewelled bright and set apart.
And yet, for all this weight, there stirs in me
Such music of Joy when some perceivéd flower
Breaks irresistible this crust, this lethargy,
I burn and hunger for that immortal hour
When Peace shall bring me first to my own home,
To my own hills; I’ll climb and vision afar
Great cloud-fleets line on line up Severn come,
Where winds of Joy shall cleanse the stain of war.
TO HIS LOVE
He’s gone, and all our plans
Are useless indeed.
We’ll walk no more on Cotswold
Where the sheep feed
Quietly and take no heed.
His body that was so quick
Is not as you
Knew it, on Severn river
Under the blue
Driving our small boat through.
You would not know him now ...
But still he died
Nobly, so cover him over
With violets of pride
Purple from Severn side.
Cover him, cover him soon!
And with thick-set
Masses of memoried flowers—
Hide that red wet
Thing I must somehow forget.
MIGRANTS
(To Mrs. Taylor)
No colour yet appears
On trees still summer fine,
The hill has brown sheaves yet,
Bare earth is hard and set;
But autumn sends a sign
In this as in other years.