My mother, she can’t sleep for fear
Of what might be a-happening here
To me. Perhaps it might be best
To die, and set her fears at rest.
For worst is worst, and worry’s done.
Perhaps he was the only son ...
Yet God keeps still, and does not say
A word of guidance any way.
Well, if they get me, first I’ll find
That boy, and tell him all my mind,
And see who felt the bullet worst,
And ask his pardon, if I durst.
All’s a tangle. Here’s my job.
A man might rave, or shout, or sob;
And God He takes no sort of heed.
This is a bloody mess indeed.
TWIGWORTH VICARAGE
(To A. H. C.)
Wakened by birds and sun, laughter of the wind,
A man might see all heart’s desire by raising
His pillowed sleepy head (still apt for lazing
And drowsy thought)—but then a green most kind
Waved welcome, and the rifted sky behind
Showed blue, whereon cloud-ships full-sailed went racing,
Man to delight and set his heart on praising
The Maker of all things, bountiful-hearted, kind.
May Hill, that half-revealéd tree-clad thing,
Maisemore’s delightful ridge, where Severn flowing
Nourished a wealth of lovely wild things blowing
Sweet as the air—Wainlodes and Ashleworth
To northward showed, a land where a great king
Might sit to receive homage from the whole earth.
HOSPITAL PICTURES
(To the Nurses of Ward 24, Bangour War Hospital, near Edinburgh)
1. LADIES OF CHARITY
With quiet tread, with softly smiling faces
The nurses move like music through the room;
While broken men (known, technically, as “cases”)
Watch them with eyes late deep in bitter gloom,
As though the Spring were come with all the Graces,
Or maiden April walked the ward in bloom.