A Treasury of War Poetry Part 30

_Robert Frost_

THE DEAD

I

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!

There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.

These laid the world away; poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, That men call age; and those who would have been, Their sons, they gave, their immortality.

Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth, Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.

Honour has come back, as a king, to earth, And paid his subjects with a royal wage; And n.o.bleness walks in our ways again; And we have come into our heritage.

II

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.

The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs, And sunset, and the colours of the earth.

These had seen movement and heard music; known Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended; Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone; Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after, Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, A width, a s.h.i.+ning peace, under the night.

_Rupert Brooke_

THE ISLAND OF SKYROS

Here, where we stood together, we three men, Before the war had swept us to the East Three thousand miles away, I stand again And bear the bells, and breathe, and go to feast.

We trod the same path, to the selfsame place, Yet here I stand, having beheld their graves, Skyros whose shadows the great seas erase, And Seddul Bahr that ever more blood craves.

So, since we communed here, our bones have been Nearer, perhaps, than they again will be, Earth and the worldwide battle lie between, Death lies between, and friend-destroying sea.

Yet here, a year ago, we talked and stood As I stand now, with pulses beating blood.

I saw her like a shadow on the sky In the last light, a blur upon the sea, Then the gale's darkness put the shadow by, But from one grave that island talked to me; And, in the midnight, in the breaking storm, I saw its blackness and a blinking light, And thought, "So death obscures your gentle form, So memory strives to make the darkness bright; And, in that heap of rocks, your body lies, Part of the island till the planet ends, My gentle comrade, beautiful and wise, Part of this crag this bitter surge offends, While I, who pa.s.s, a little obscure thing, War with this force, and breathe, and am its king."

_John Masefield_

FOR THE FALLEN

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea.

Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres, There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that s.h.i.+nes upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted: They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables of home; They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain; As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain.

_Laurence Binyon_

TWO SONNETS

I

Saints have adored the lofty soul of you.

Poets have whitened at your high renown.

We stand among the many millions who Do hourly wait to pa.s.s your pathway down.

You, so familiar, once were strange: we tried To live as of your presence unaware.

But now in every road on every side We see your straight and steadfast signpost there.

I think it like that signpost in my land h.o.a.ry and tall, which pointed me to go Upward, into the hills, on the right hand, Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow, A homeless land and friendless, but a land I did not know and that I wished to know.

II

Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat: Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean, A merciful putting away of what has been.

And this we know: Death is not Life effete, Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen So marvellous things know well the end not yet.

Victor and vanquished are a-one in death: Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say, "Come, what was your record when you drew breath?"

But a big blot has hid each yesterday So poor, so manifestly incomplete.

And your bright Promise, withered long and sped, Is touched, stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet And blossoms and is you, when you are dead.

_Charles Hamilton Sorley_

_June 12, 1915_