A Treasury of War Poetry: British and American Poems of the World War 1914-1917. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ Thought, as it were an old stringed instrument

       Drawn to remembered music, oft does set

       The lips moving in prayer, for us fresh keeping

       Knowledge of springtime and the violet.

      And, as the eyes grow dim with many years,

       The spirit runs more swiftly than the feet,

       Perceives its comfort, knows that it will meet

       God at the end of troubles, that the dreary

       Last reaches of old age lead beyond tears

       To happy youth unending. There is peace

       In homeward waters, where at last the weary

       Shall find rebirth, and their long struggle cease.

      So, at this hour, when the Old World lies sick,

       Beyond the pain, the agony of breath

       Hard drawn, beyond the menaces of death,

       O'er graves and years leans out the eager spirit.

       First must the ancient die; then shall be quick

       New fires within us. Brother, we shall make

       Incredible discoveries and inherit

       The fruits of hope, and love shall be awake.

       Charles Langbridge Morgan

A CHANT OF LOVE FOR ENGLAND

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      A song of hate is a song of Hell;

       Some there be that sing it well.

       Let them sing it loud and long,

       We lift our hearts in a loftier song:

       We lift our hearts to Heaven above,

       Singing the glory of her we love—

       England!

      Glory of thought and glory of deed,

       Glory of Hampden and Runnymede;

       Glory of ships that sought far goals,

       Glory of swords and glory of souls!

       Glory of songs mounting as birds,

       Glory immortal of magical words;

       Glory of Milton, glory of Nelson,

       Tragical glory of Gordon and Scott;

       Glory of Shelley, glory of Sidney,

       Glory transcendent that perishes not—

       Hers is the story, hers be the glory,

       England!

      Shatter her beauteous breast ye may;

       The spirit of England none can slay!

       Dash the bomb on the dome of Paul's—

       Deem ye the fame of the Admiral falls?

       Pry the stone from the chancel floor—

       Dream ye that Shakespeare shall live no more?

       Where is the giant shot that kills

       Wordsworth walking the old green hills?

       Trample the red rose on the ground—

       Keats is Beauty while earth spins round!

       Bind her, grind her, burn her with fire,

       Cast her ashes into the sea—

       She shall escape, she shall aspire,

       She shall arise to make men free:

       She shall arise in a sacred scorn,

       Lighting the lives that are yet unborn;

       Spirit supernal, Splendour eternal,

       ENGLAND!

       Helen Gray Cone

AT ST. PAUL'S

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      APRIL 20, 1917

      Not since Wren's Dome has whispered with man's prayer

       Have angels leaned to wonder out of Heaven

       At such uprush of intercession given,

       Here where to-day one soul two nations share,

       And with accord send up thro' trembling air

       Their vows to strive as Honour ne'er has striven

       Till back to hell the Lords of hell are driven,

       And Life and Peace again shall flourish fair.

      This is the day of conscience high-enthroned,

       The day when East is West and West is East

       To strike for human Love and Freedom's word

       Against foul wrong that cannot be atoned;

       To-day is hope of brotherhood's bond increased,

       And Christ, not Odin, is acclaimed the Lord.

       Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley

JIMMY DOANE

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      Often I think of you, Jimmy Doane—

       You who, light-heartedly, came to my house

       Three autumns, to shoot and to eat a grouse!

      As I sat apart in this quiet room,

       My mind was full of the horror of war

       And not with the hope of a visitor.

      I had dined on food that had lost its taste;

       My soul was cold and I wished you were here—

       СКАЧАТЬ