Or—nothing! Days in mud
And slush, then other days ...
Aie me! “Are they not all
The seas of God”; God’s Ways?
THE FARM
(To Mrs. Harvey and Those Others)
A creeper-covered house, an orchard near;
A farmyard with tall ricks upstanding clear
In golden sunlight of a late September.——
How little of a whole world to remember!
How slight a thing to keep a spirit free!
Within the house were books,
A piano, dear to me,
And round the house the rooks
Haunted each tall elm tree;
Each sunset crying, calling, clamouring aloud.
And friends lived there of whom the house was proud,
Sheltering with content from wind and storm,
Them loving gathered at the hearthside warm,
(O friendly, happy crowd!)
Caress of firelight gave them, touching hair
And cheeks and hands with sombre gleams of love,
(When day died out behind the lovely bare
Network of twigs, orchard and elms apart;
When rooks lay still in round dark nests above,
And Peace like cool dew comforted the heart.)
The house all strangers welcomed, but as strangers kept
For ever them apart
From its deep heart,
That hidden sanctuary of love close guarded;
Having too great a honey-heap uphoarded
Of children’s play, men’s work, lightly to let
Strangers therein;
Who knew its stubborn pride, and loved the more
The place from webbed slate roof to cellar floor—
Hens clucking, ducks, all casual farmyard din.
How empty the place seemed when Duty called
To harder service its three sons than tending
Brown fruitful good earth there! But all’s God’s sending.
Above the low barn where the oxen were stalled
The old house watched for weeks the road, to see
Nothing but common traffic; nothing its own.
It had grown to them so used, so long had known
Their presences; sheltered and shared sorrow and glee,
No wonder it felt desolate and left alone ...
That must remember, nothing at all forget.
My mind (how often!) turned and returned to it,
When in queer holes of chance, bedraggled, wet,
Lousy I lay; to think how by Severn-side
A house of steadfastness and quiet pride
Kept faith to friends (when hope of mine had died
Almost to ash). And never twilight came
With mystery and peace and points of flame—
Save it must bring sounds of my Severn flowing
Steadily seawards, orange windows glowing
Bright in the dusk, and many a well-known name.
OMENS
(To E. H.)
Black rooks about the trees
Are circling slow;
Tall elms that can no ease
Nor comfort know,
Since that the Autumn wind
Batters them before, behind,
A bitter breeze unkind.
They call like tongues of dread
Prophesying woe,
Rooks on the sunset red,
Not heeding how
Their clamouring brings near
To a woman the old fear
For her far soldier dear.
That harsh and idle crying
Of mere annoy
Tells her how men are dying,
And how her boy
May lie, his racked thought turning
To the home fire on the hearth burning,
The last agony be learning.
ETERNAL TREASURE
(To H. N. H.)
Why think on Beauty as for ever lost
When fire and steel have worked their evil will,
Since Beauty lasts beyond decaying dust,
And in the after-dark is lovely still?
We are no phantoms; Body is but the case
Of an immortal Flame that does not perish,
Can the all-withering power of Time outface,
Since God Himself with love that flame does cherish.
Take comfort then, and dare the dangerous thing,
Death flouting with his impotence of wrath;
For Beauty arms us ’gainst his envious sting,
Safes us in any the most perilous path.
Come then, O brothers, greet what may befall
With Joy, for Beauty’s Maker ordereth all.