O God, the God of battles, To us who intercede, Give only strength to follow Until there’s no more need, And grant us at that ending Of the unkindly quest To come unto the quiet isles Beyond Death’s starry West. April 1916 _Now_ spring is come upon the hills in France, And all the trees are delicately fair, As heeding not the great guns’ voice, by chance Brought down the valley on a wandering air: Now day by day upon the uplands bare Do gentle, toiling horses draw the plough, And birds sing often in the orchards where Spring wantons it with blossoms on her brow— Aye! but there is no peace in England now. O little isle amid unquiet seas, Though grisly messengers knock on many doors, Though there be many storms among your trees And all your banners rent with ancient wars; Yet such a grace and majesty are yours There be still some, whose glad heart suffereth All hate can bring from her misgotten stores, Telling themselves, so England’s self draw breath, That’s all the happiness on this side death. “Over the Hills and Hollows Green” _Over_ the hills and hollows green The springtide air goes valiantly, Where many sainted singing larks And blessed primaveras be: But bitterly the springtide air Over the desert towns doth blow, About whose torn and shattered streets No more shall children’s footsteps go. Sonnet _To-night_ the world is but a prison house, And kindly ways, and all the springing grass Are dungeon stones to him that may not pass Among them, save with anguish on his brows: And any wretched husbandman that ploughs The upland acres in his habit spare Is king, to those in palaces of glass Who sit with grief and weariness for spouse. O God, who madest first the world that we Might happy live, and praise its pleasantness In such wise as the angels never could, Wherefore are hearts, fashioned so wondrously, All spoiled and changed by human bitterness Into the likenesses of stone and wood? “O Long the Fiends of War shall dance” _O long_ the fiends of war shall dance Upon the stricken fields of France: And long and long their grisly cry Shall echo up and smite the sky: O long and long the tears of God Shall fall upon a barren sod, Save when, of His great clemency, He gives men’s hearts in custody Of grim old kindly Death, who knows The mould is better than the rose. For R. Q. G. July 1916 _O God,_ whose great inscrutable purposes (Seen only of the one all-seeing eye) Are as unchangeable as the azure sky, And as fulfilled of infinite mysteries: Are like a fast-locked castle without keys Whereof the gates are very strong and high, Impenetrable, and we poor fools die Nor even know what thing beyond them is: O God, by whom men’s lives are multiplied, Are scattered broadcast in the world like grain, And after long time reaped again and stored, O Thou who only canst be glorified By man’s own passion and the supreme pain, Accept this sacrifice of blood outpoured.