DOWN COMMERCIAL ROAD (GLOUCESTER)
(To my Mother)
When I was small and packed with tales of desert islands far
My mother took me walking in a grey ugly street,
But there the sea-wind met us with a jolly smell of tar,
A sailorman went past to town with slow rolling gait;
And Gloucester she’s famous in story.
The trees and shining sky of June were good enough to see,
Better than books or any tales the sailormen might tell—
But tops’le spars against the blue made fairyland for me;
The snorting tug made surges like the huge Atlantic swell.
And Gloucester she’s famous in story.
Then thought I, how much better to sail the open seas
Than sit in school at spelling-books or sums of grocers’ wares.
And I’d have knelt for pity at any captain’s knees
To go see the banyan tree or white Arctic bears.
And Gloucester she’s famous in story.
O Gloucester men about the world that dare the seas to-day,
Remember little boys at school a-studying their best
To hide somehow from Mother, and get clear away
To where the flag of England flies prouder than the rest.
And Gloucester she’s famous in story.
FROM OMIECOURT
O small dear things for which we fight—
Red roofs, ricks crowned with early gold,
Orchards that hedges thick enfold—
O visit us in dreams to-night!
Who watch the stars through broken walls
And ragged roofs, that you may be
Still kept our own and proudly free
While Severn from the Welsh height falls.
LE COQ FRANÇAIS
(To Ronald)
After the biting cold of the outer night
It seemed—(“Le Coq Français”)—a palace of light,
And its low roof black-timbered was most fine
After the iron and sandbags of the line.
Easy it was to be happy there! Madame,
Frying a savoury mess of eggs and ham,
Talking the while: of the War, of the crops, her son
Who should see to them, and would, when the War was done.
Of battalions who had passed there, happy as we
To find a house so clean, such courtesy
Simple, sincere; after vigils of frost
The place seemed the seventh Heaven of comfort; lost
In miraculous strange peace and warmth we’d sit
Till the prowling police hunted us out of it—
Away from café noir, café au lait, vin blanc,
Vin rouge, citron, all that does belong
To the kindly shelter of old estaminets,
Nooked and cornered, with mirth of firelight ablaze—
Herded us into billets; where candles must show
Little enough comfort after the steady glow
Of that wonderful fireshine. We must huddle us close
In blankets, hiding all but the crimson nose,
To think awhile of home, if the frost would let
Thought flow at all; then sleep, sleep to forget
All but home and old rambles, lovely days
Of maiden April, glamorous September haze,
All darling things of life, the sweet of desire—
Castles of Spain in the deep heart of the fire.