“Oh, men have held times out of mind
Their stern and stoic courage bright—
But if no cry comes on the wind,
How shall I face the ambushed night?
“How shall I turn to bay, and stand
To grapple, if I cannot see
My fierce assailant at my hand,
The high look of mine enemy?
“If He will answer me, with rod
And plague and thunder let Him come—
But how can man dispute with God
Who writes no book, whose voice is dumb?
“Who rings me round with prison bars
Through which I peer with sleepless eyes,
And see the enigmatic stars—
These only—in the iron skies.”
. . . . . .
“These only? These together sang
At the glad birthday of the earth
When all the courts of Heaven rang
With shouting and angelic mirth!
“The night enfolds you with a cloak
Of silence and of chill affright?
But when man’s wells of laughter broke,
Who gave man singing in the night?
“The Rod shall burst to flowers and fruit
Richer than grew on Aaron’s rod,
And Mercy clothe you head to foot,
Beloved and smitten of your God!”
THE SOIL OF SOLACE
I MAY not stand with other men, or ride
In those grey fields where fall the screaming shells,
Or mix my blood with blood of those who died
To find a heaven in their sevenfold hells.
Honour and death a strident bugle blows,
Setting an end to death and blasphemy—
Oh, had I any choice in it, God knows
Where in this epic day I too would be!
Yet may I keep some English heart alive
With a poet’s pleasure in all English things—
Good-fellowship and kindliness still thrive
In English soil; the dusk is full of wings;
And by the river long reeds grow; and still
A little house sits brooding on the hill!