The plain’s a waste of evil mire,
And dead of colour, sodden-grey,
The trees are ruined, crumbled the spire
That once made glad the innocent day.
The host of flowers are buried deep
With friends of mine who held them dear;
Poor shattered loveliness asleep,
Dreaming of April’s covering there.
Oh, if the Bringer of Spring does care
For Duty valorously done,
Then what sweet breath shall scent the air!
What colour-blaze outbrave the sun!
RUMOURS OF WARS
(To Mrs. Voynich)
On Sussex hills to-day
Women stand and hear
The guns at work alway,
Horribly, terribly clear.
The doors shake, on the wall
The kitchen vessels move,
The brave heart not at all
May soothe its tortured love,
Nor hide from truth, nor find
Comfort in lies. No prayer
May calm. All’s naught. The mind
Waits on the throbbing air.
The frighted day grows dark.
None dares to speak. The gloom
Makes bright and brighter the spark
Of fire in the still room.
A crazy door shakes free....
“Dear God!” They stand, they stare ...
A shape eyes cannot see
Troubles blank darkness there.
She knows, and must go pray
Numb-hearted by the bed
That was his own alway ...
The throbbing hurts her head.