Many Voices

IN HOSPITAL

Under the shadow of a hawthorn brake,   Where bluebells draw the sky down to the wood,Where, ’mid brown leaves, the primroses awake   And hidden violets smell of solitude;Beneath green leaves bright-fluttered by the wingOf fleeting, beautiful, immortal Spring,I should have said, “I love you,” and your eyesHave said, “I, too . . . ”  The gods saw otherwise.For this is winter, and the London streets   Are full of soldiers from that far, fierce frayWhere life knows death, and where poor glory meets   Full-face with shame, and weeps and turns away.And in the broken, trampled foreign woodIs horror, and the terrible scent of blood,And love shines tremulous, like a drowning star,Under the shadow of the wings of war.

1916.

PRAYER IN TIME OF WAR

Now Death is near, and very near,In this wild whirl of horror and fear,When round the vessel of our StateRoll the great mountain waves of hate.God!  We have but one prayer to-day—O Father, teach us how to pray.For prayer is strong, and very strong;But we have turned from Thee so longTo follow gods that have no powerSave in the safe and sordid hour,That to Thy feet we have lost the way . . .O Father, teach us how to pray.We have done ill, and very ill,Set up our will against Thy will.That our soft lives might gorge, full-fed,We stole our brothers’ daily bread.Lord, we are sorry we went astray—O Father, teach us how to pray.Now in this hour of desperate strifeFor England’s life, her very life,Teach us to pray that life may beA new life, beautiful to Thee,And in Thy hands that life to lay.O Father, teach us how to pray.

1915.

AT PARTING

Go, since you must, but, Dearest, knowThat, Honour having bid you go,Your honour, if your life be spent,Shall have a costly monument.This heart, that fire and roses isBeneath the magic of your kiss,Shall turn to marble if you dieAnd be your deathless effigy.

1914.

INVOCATION

The Spirit of Darkness, the Prince of the Power of the Air,   The terror that walketh by night, and the horror by day,The legions of Evil, alert and awake and aware,   Press round him each hour; and I pray here alone, far away.God! call up Thy legions to fight on the side of my love,   Let the seats of the mighty be cast down before him, O Lord,Send strong wings of angels to shield him beneath and above,   Let glorious Michael unsheath his implacable sword.Let the whole host of Heaven take part with my dear in his fight,   That the armies of Hell may be scattered like chaff in the blast,And the trumpets of Heaven blow fair for the triumph of Right.   Inspire him, protect him, and bring him home victor at last.But if—ah, dear God, give me strength to withhold nothing now!—   If the life of my life be required for Thy splendid design,Give his country the laurels, though cold and uncrowned be his brow . . .   Thou gavest Thy Son for the world, and shall I not give mine?

1914.

TO HER: IN TIME OF WAR

Once I made for you songs,Rondels, triolets, sonnets;Verse that my love deemed due,Verse that your love found fair.Now the wide wings of warHang, like a hawk’s, over England,Shadowing meadows and groves;And the birds and the lovers are mute.Yet there’s a thing to sayBefore I go into battle,Not now a poet’s wordBut a man’s word to his mate:Dear, if I come back never,Be it your pride that we gaveThe hope of our hearts, each other,For the sake of the Hope of the World.

1915.

THE FIELDS OF FLANDERS

Last year the fields were all glad and gayWith silver daisies and silver may;There were kingcups gold by the river’s edgeAnd primrose stars under every hedge.This year the fields are trampled and brown,The hedges are broken and beaten down,And where the primroses used to growAre little black crosses set in a row.And the flower of hopes, and the flowers of dreams,The noble, fruitful, beautiful schemes,The tree of life with its fruit and bud,Are trampled down in the mud and the blood.The changing seasons will bring againThe magic of Spring to our wood and plain:Though the Spring be so green as never was seenThe crosses will still be black in the green.The God of battles shall judge the foeWho trampled our country and laid her low . . .God! hold our hands on the reckoning day,Lest all we owe them we should repay.

1915.

SPRING IN WAR-TIME

Now the sprinkled blackthorn snow   Lies along the lovers’ laneWhere last year we used to go—   Where we shall not go again.In the hedge the buds are new,   By our wood the violets peer—Just like last year’s violets, too,   But they have no scent this year.Every bird has heart to sing   Of its nest, warmed by its breast;We had heart to sing last spring,   But we never built our nest.Presently red roses blown   Will make all the garden gay . . .Not yet have the daisies grown   On your clay.

1916.

THE MOTHER’S PRAYER

This was my little son   Who leapt and laughed on my knee:Body we made with love,   Soul made with love by Thee.This was the mystery   In which I worshipped Thy grace;This was the sign to me—   The unveiling of Thy face . . .This, that lies under Thy skies   Naked as on that day   When the floor of heaven gave way   And the glory of God shone through,   When the world was made newAnd Thy word was made flesh for me . . .   He lies there, bare to Thy skies,         O Lord God, see!Body that was in mine   A secret, sacred spell,Little hands I have kissed   Trampled by beasts in Hell . . .Growing beauty and grace . . .   Oh, head that lay on my bosom . . .Broken, battered, shattered . . .   Body that grew like a blossom!All that was promised me   On my life’s royal day.Every promise broken—   Only a ghost, and clay!O God, I kneel at Thy feet;   I lay my hands in Thine:Thou gavest Thy Son for the world,   And shall I not give mine?Only—O God, have pity!   All my defences are down:God, I accept the Cross,   Let him have the Crown!By all that my love has borne,   By all that all mothers bear,By the infinite patient anguish,   By the never-ceasing prayer,By the thoughts that cut like a living knife,   By the tears that are never dry,Take what he died to win You—   God, take Your victory!We have watched on till the light burned low,   And watched the dawn awake;We have lived hardly and hardly fared   For our sons’ sake.All that was good in Thy earth,   All that taught us of Heaven,All that we had in the world   We have given.We pray with empty hands   And hearts that are stiff with pain.O God!  O God!  O God!   Let the sacrifice not be vain.This is his blood, Lord, see!His blood that was shed for Thee;Thy banner is dyed in that red tideLord, take Thy victory!God! give Thine angels power   To fight as he fought,To scatter the hosts of evil,   To bring their boastings to naught—Gabriel with trumpet of battle . . .   Michael, who wields Thy sword . . .Breathe Thou Thy spirit upon them,   Put forth Thy strength, O Lord.See, Lord, this is his body,   Broken for Thee, for Thee . . .My son, my little son,   Who leapt and laughed on my knee.

“INASMUCH AS YE DID IT NOT . . . ”

If Jesus came to London,   Came to London to-day,He would not go to the West End,   He would come down our way;He’d talk with the children dancing   To the organ out in the street,And say he was their big Brother,   And give them something to eat.He wouldn’t go to the mansions   Where the charitable live;He’d come to the tenement houses   Where we ain’t got nothing to give.He’d come so kind and so homely,   And treat us to beer and bread,And tell us how we ought to behave;   And we’d try to mind what He said.In the warm bright West End churches   They sing and preach and pray,They call us “Beloved brethren,”   But they do not act that way.And when He came to the church door   He’d call out loud and free,“You stop that preaching and praying   And show what you’ve done for Me.”Then they’d say, “O Lord, we have given   To the poor both blankets and tracts,And we’ve tried to make them sober,   And we’ve tried to teach them facts.But they will sneak round to the drink-shop,   And pawn the blankets for beer,And we find them very ungrateful,   But still we persevere.”Then He would say, “I told you   The time I was here before,That you were all of you brothers,   All you that I suffered for.I won’t go into your churches,   I’ll stop in the sun outside.You bring out the men your brothers,   The men for whom I died!”Out of our beastly lodgings,   From arches and doorways about,They’d have to do as He told them,   They’d have to call us out.Millions and millions and millions,   Thick and crawling like flies,We should creep out to the sunshine   And not be afraid of His eyes.He’d see what God’s image looks like   When men have dealt with the same,Wrinkled with work that is never done,   Swollen and dirty with shame.He’d see on the children’s forehead   The branded gutter-signThat marks the girls to be harlots,   That dooms the boys to be swine.Then He’d say, “What’s the good of churches   When these have nowhere to sleep?And how can I hear you praying   When they are cursing so deep?I gave My Blood and My Body   That they might have bread and wine,And you have taken your share and theirs   Of these good gifts of mine!”Then some of the rich would be sorry,   And all would be very scared,And they’d say, “But we never knew, Lord!”   And He’d say, “You never cared!”And some would be sick and shameful   Because they’d know that they knew,And the best would say, “We were wrong, Lord.   Now tell us what to do!”I think He’d be sitting, likely,   For someone ’ud bring Him a chair,With a common kid cuddled up on His knee   And the common sun on His hair;And they’d be standing before Him,   And He’d say, “You know that you knew.Why haven’t you worked for your brothers   The same as I worked for you?“For since you’re all of you brothers   It’s clear as God’s blessed sunThat each must work for the others,   Not thousands work for one.And the ones that have lived bone-idle   If they want Me to hear them pray,Let them go and work for their livings   The only honest way!“I’ve got nothing new to tell you,   You know what I always said—But you’ve built their bones into churches   And stolen their wine and bread;You with My Name on your foreheads,   Liar, and traitor, and knave,You have lived by the death of your brothers,   These whom I died to save!”I wish He would come and say it;   Perhaps they’d believe it then,And work like men for their livings   And let us work like men.Brothers?  They don’t believe it,   The lie on their lips is red.They’ll never believe till He comes again,   Or till we rise from the dead!