Grateful--ah, yes! I, who have seen The larches brighten green, The orchard’s Easter dress, And those red thousand poppies, In wheat below the coppice: I, who (while others lie in graves Of earth, or rocked with waves), Have leave to walk And sing and talk, With golden lads and girls, My friends, To all the farthest ends, Whither Life whirls.... How can I not feel gratitude for this And other bliss, Which God--dear God--hath sent, For my great wonderment? THE SOLDIER SPEAKS Within my heart I safely keep, England, what things are yours: Your clouds, and cloud-like flocks of sheep That drift o’er windy moors. Possessing naught, I proudly hold Great hills and little gay Hill-towns set black on sunrise-gold At breaking of the day. Though unto me you be austere And loveless, darling land; Though you be cold and hard, my dear, And will not understand. Yet have I fought and bled for you, And, by that self-same sign, Still must I love you, yearn to you, England--how truly mine! A PRESENT FROM FLANDERS Where dewfall and the moon Make precious things, On every small festoon A spider slings: Treading--like dead leaves under All drifted days, Happy the lovers wander In Winter ways; No thought of pain perplexes The peace they hold; No worldly sorrow vexes The lovers. Gold-- All golden gleams the way; How strange such riches Drawn from rough men should be Seven or eight worlds away, Fighting, and carelessly, Dying in ditches! IF WE RETURN (_Rondeau_) If we return, will England be Just England still to you and me? The place where we must earn our bread? We, who have walked among the dead. And watched the smile of agony, And seen the price of Liberty, Which we have taken carelessly From other hands. Nay, we shall dread, If we return, Dread lest we hold blood-guiltily The things that men have died to free. Oh, English fields shall blossom red For all the blood that has been shed By men whose guardians are we, If we return. A PEOPLE RENEWED Now these like men shall live, And like to princes fall. They take what Fate will give At this great festival. And since at length they find That life is sweet indeed, They cast it on the wind To serve their country’s need. See young “Adventure” there (“Make-money-quick” that was) Hurls down his gods that were For Honour and the Cross! Old “Grab-at-Gold” lies low In Flanders. And again (Because men will it so) England is ruled by Men. THE AWAKENING At night, in dream, I saw those fields round home Agleam. Drenched all with dew Beneath day’s newest dome Of gold and blue.