Poems New and Old. John Freeman

she said, "a blind girl's liberties."

      "You were his friend; I wanted so to see

       The friends my brother had. Now let's have tea."

       She poured, and passed a cup and cakes to me.

      "These are my cakes," she smiled; and as I ate

       She talked, and to the others cup and plate

       Passed as they in their shadow and silence sat.

      "Thanks, we are used to each other," she said when I

       Rose in the awkwardness of seeing, shy

       Of helping and of watching helplessly.

      And from the manner of their hands 'twas clear

       They too were blind; but I knew they could hear

       My pitiful thoughts as I sat aching there.

      … I needs must talk, until the girl was gone

       A while out of the room. The lamp shone on,

       But the true light out of the room was gone.

      "Rose loved him so!" her mother said, and sighed.

       "He was our eyes, he was our joy and pride,

       And all that's left is but to say he died."

      She ceased as Rose returned. Then as before

       We talked and paused until, "Tell me once more,

       What was it he said?" And I told her once more.

      She listened: in her face was pride and pain

       As in her mind's eye near he stood and plain. …

       Then the thin leaves fell on my cheek again

      And on my hands. "He must have loved you well,"

       She whispered, as her hands from my hands fell.

       Silence flowed back with thoughts unspeakable.

      It was a painful thing to leave them there

       Within the useless light and stirless air.

       "Let me show you the way. Mind, there's a stair

      "Here, then another stair ten paces on. …

       Isn't there a moon? Good-bye."

       And she was gone.

       Full moon upon the drenched fruit garden shone.

TRAVELLING

       Table of Contents

      They talked of old campaigns, nineteen-fourteen

       And Mons and watery Yser, nineteen-fifteen

       And Neuve Chapelle, 'sixteen, 'seventeen, 'eighteen

       And after. And they grumbled, leaving home,

       Then talked of nineteen-nineteen, nineteen-twenty

       And after.

      Their thoughts wandered, leaving home

       Among familiar places and known years;

       Anticipating in the river, of time

       Rocks, rapids, shallows, idle glazing pools

       Mirroring their dark dreams of heaven and earth.

       —And then they parted, one to Chatham, one

       To Africa, Constantinople one,

       One to Cologne; and all to an unknown year,

       Nineteen-nineteen perhaps, or another year.

THE SONG OF THE FOREST

       Table of Contents

      (11th November, 1918)

       I

      To Thee, Most Holy, Most Obscure, light-hidden,

       Shedding light in the darkness of the mind

       As gold beams wake the air to birds a-wing;

       To Thee, if men were trees, would forests bow

       In all our land, as under a new wind;

       To Thee, if trees were men, would forests sing

       Lifting autumnal crowns and bending low,

       Rising and falling again as inly chidden,

       Singing and hushing again as inly bidden.

       To Thee, Most Holy, men being men upraise

       Bright eyes and waving hands of unarticulating praise.

       II

      To Thee, Most Holy, Most Obscure, who pourest

       Thy darkness into each wild-heaving human forest,

       While some say, "'Tis so dark God cannot live,"

       And some, "It is so dark He never was,"

       And few, "I hear the forest branches give

       Assurèd signs His wind-like footsteps pass;"

       To Thee, now that long darkness is enlightened,

       Lift men their hearts, shaking the death-chill dews.

       Even sad eyes with morning light are brightened,

       And in this spiritual Easter's lovely hues

       Are no more with death's arctic shadow frightened.

       III

      Here in this morning twilight gleaming pure

       Mid the high forest boughs and making clear

       The motion the night-wakeful brain had guessed;

       Here in this peace that wonders, Is it Peace?

       And sighs its satisfaction on the shivering air;

       Here, O Most Holy, here, O bright Obscure,

       Every deep root within the earth's quick breast

       Knows that the long night's ended and sore agitations cease,

       And every leaf of every human tree

       In England's forest stirs and sings, Light Giver, now to Thee.

       IV

      I cannot syllable that unworded praise—

       An ashen sapling bending in Thy wind,

       Uplifting in Thy light new-budded leaves;

       Nor for myself nor any other raise

       My boughs in music, though the woodland heaves—

       O with what ease of pain at length resigned,

       What hope to the old inheritance restored!

       Thy praise it is that men at last are glad.

       Long unaccustomed brightness in their eyes

       Needs must seem beautiful in thine, bright Lord,

       And to forget the part that sorrow had

       In every shadowed breast, where still it lies,

       Is there not praise in such forgetfulness?

       For to grieve less means not that love is less.

       V

      —Nor for myself nor any other. Yet

       I cannot but remember all that passed

       Since justice shook these bosoms, and the fret

       Of indignation stirred them and they cast