(On the Declaration of War) _Not_ like to those who find untrodden ways; But down the weary paths we know, Through every change of sky and change of days Silent, processional we go. Not unto us the soft, unlaboured breath Of children’s hopes and children’s fears: We are not sworn to battle to the death With all the wrongs of all the years: We are old, we are old, and worn and school’d with ills, Maybe our road is almost done, Maybe we are drawn near unto the hills Where rest is and the setting sun: But yet a pride is ours that will not brook The taunts of fools too saucy grown, He that is rash to prove it, let him look He kindle not a fire unknown. Since first we flung our gauntlet to the skies And dared the high Gods’ will to bend, A fire that still may burn deceit and lies Burn and consume them to the end. “Dark is the World our Fathers left us” _Dark_ is the world our fathers left us, Wearily, greyly the long years flow, Almost the gloom has of hope bereft us, Far is the high gods’ song and low: Sombre the crests of the mountains lonely, Leafless, wind-ridden, moan the trees: Down in the valleys is twilight only, Twilight over the mourning seas: Time was when earth was always golden, Time was when skies were always clear: Spirits and souls of the heroes olden, Faint are cries from the darkness, hear! Tear ye the veil of time asunder Tear the veil, ’tis the gods’ command, Hear we the sun-stricken breakers thunder Over the shore where the heroes stand. ―――― Dark is the world our fathers left us, Heavily, greyly the long years flow, Almost the gloom has of hope bereft us, Far is the high gods’ song and low. Awakening _Gold-crested_ towers against the veilèd skies, Sere branches of the winter trees beneath, And a low song, and heavy-lidded eyes; Is there aught else in all the world beside? Is not time stilled and ended in this hour? ―――― Up, and away! the belted squadrons ride! Ave atque Vale _In_ Oxford, evermore the same Unto the uttermost verge of time, Though grave-dust choke the sons of men, And silence wait upon the rime, At evening now the skies set forth Last glories of the dying year: The wind gives chase to relict leaves: And we, we may not linger here. A little while, and we are gone: God knows if it be ours to see Again the earliest hoar-frost white On the long lawns of Trinity. In Merton, of the many courts And doorways good to wander through, Gable and spire shall glitter white Or tawny gold against the blue: And still the winter sun shall smile At noonday, or at sunset hour On Magdalen, girt with ancient trees, Beneath her bright immortal tower. Though nevermore we tread the ways That our returning feet have known Past Oriel, and Christ Church gate Unto those dearer walls, our own.