My dear companions--you That have been more to me Than grief or gaiety-- This sure is true: That we shall meet once more beyond Death’s door, Again be merry friends Where friendship never ends. VICTORY Whether you shall see it, or I, We cannot tell Now. And it doesn’t matter. For ’twill come when Hell Is covered, and the batter Of guns fades:--Victory! Remember then, you who have fellowed the dead-- Though the worst loudest last Thunder before the sun-- Remember--though the Hun And his brute power has passed-- There are more wars to be won! Oh! while life’s Life, to all Eternity:-- Brothers, press on! Go On To VICTORY! DEATH THE REVEALER Within this dim five-windowed house of sense I watch through coloured glass The shapes that pass. Soon must I journey hence To meet the great winds of the outer world, And see (When God has turned the key) The true and terrible colours of His scheme Which now I dream. F. W. H. (_A Portrait_) A thick-set, dark-haired, dreamy little man, Uncouth to see, Revolving ever this preposterous plan-- Within a web of words spread cunningly To tangle Life--no less, (Could he expect success!) Of Life, he craves not much, except to watch. Being forced to act, He walks behind himself, as if to catch The motive:--an accessory to the fact, Faintly amused, it seems, Behind his dreams. Yet hath he loved the vision of this world, And found it good: The Faith, the fight ’neath Freedom’s flag unfurled, The friends, the fun, the army-brotherhood. But faery-crazed or worse He twists it all to verse! POETRY The poems of Earth are lived, Not scratched with the dirty pen. They are writ in the sense of things And sung in the hearts of men. Sensuous strains of Spring Pouring in silver flood, Summer’s golden delight Warming the waiting blood. Colour, and scent, and sound Of all the changing year:-- These are the poems of Earth Which every man must hear. Sorrow, and pain, and love, Joy, and fear, and regret:-- These are the burning poems That all our hearts beget. These are the poems of Earth That every man must pen: Which you and I make up And straight forget again. PROSE POEMS 1. HEAVEN “Take me, then,” he said to the angel, “upon this great journey to Heaven.” The angel touched his eyelids. “Where, then, is Hell?” asked the man. The spirit pointed out a bored-looking man quite near the throne. “But he is in Heaven,” protested the mortal. “Even so, but he does not know it,” replied the angel. 2. THE MOTH “It is the brightness of God!” exclaimed the moth, beholding the candle. “But it will scorch you worse than Hell’s fire,” warned a friendly insect. “What matter that?” shouted the moth. “It is the brightness of God!” Then it flew into the flame and was shrivelled. 3. THE ARTIST