THE BOUGH OF NONSENSE An Idyll Back from the Somme two Fusiliers Limped painfully home; the elder said, _S_. "Robert, I've lived three thousand years This Summer, and I'm nine parts dead." _R_. "But if that's truly so," I cried, "quick, now, Through these great oaks and see the famous bough "Where once a nonsense built her nest With skulls and flowers and all things queer, In an old boot, with patient breast Hatching three eggs; and the next year ..." _S_. "Foaled thirteen squamous young beneath, and rid Wales of drink, melancholy, and psalms, she did." Said he, "Before this quaint mood fails, We'll sit and weave a nonsense hymn," _R_. "Hanging it up with monkey tails In a deep grove all hushed and dim...." _S_. "To glorious yellow-bunched banana-trees," _R_. "Planted in dreams by pious Portuguese," _S_. "Which men are wise beyond their time, And worship nonsense, no one more." _R_. "Hard by, among old quince and lime, They've built a temple with no floor," _S_. "And whosoever worships in that place, He disappears from sight and leaves no trace." _R_. "Once the Galatians built a fane To Sense: what duller God than that?" _S_. "But the first day of autumn rain The roof fell in and crushed them flat." _R_. "Ay, for a roof of subtlest logic falls When nonsense is foundation for the walls." I tell him old Galatian tales; He caps them in quick Portuguese, While phantom creatures with green scales Scramble and roll among the trees. The hymn swells; on a bough above us sings A row of bright pink birds, flapping their wings. NOT DEAD Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain, I know that David's with me here again. All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. Caressingly I stroke Rough hark of the friendly oak. A brook goes bubbling by: the voice is his. Turf burns with pleasant smoke; I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses. All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. Over the whole wood in a little while Breaks his slow smile. A BOY IN CHURCH "Gabble-gabble,... brethren,... gabble-gabble!" My window frames forest and heather. I hardly hear the tuneful babble, Not knowing nor much caring whether The text is praise or exhortation, Prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation. Outside it blows wetter and wetter, The tossing trees never stay still. I shift my elbows to catch better The full round sweep of heathered hill. The tortured copse bends to and fro In silence like a shadow-show. The parson's voice runs like a river Over smooth rocks. I like this church: The pews are staid, they never shiver, They never bend or sway or lurch. "Prayer," says the kind voice, "is a chain That draws down Grace from Heaven again." I add the hymns up, over and over, Until there's not the least mistake. Seven-seventy-one. (Look! there's a plover! It's gone!) Who's that Saint by the lake? The red light from his mantle passes Across the broad memorial brasses.