From this sweet nest of peace and summer blue-- England in June--a sea-bird’s nest indeed Guarded of waves, and hid by the sea-weed From envious hunter’s eye, we send to you Our flying thoughts and prayers, our treasure too, Poor though it be to bandage wounds that bleed For country dear beloved. There the seed Of homely loves and occupations grew To wither in the flame of godless might Kindled by hands of treachery, yet reeking With blood of friends and neighbours. Serbia, thou Hast thought us careless and far off; know now Thy name to us is sudden drums outspeaking And tortured trumpets crying in the night! _Note._--This poem was sent from Crefeld, but was written in England just before the author left for the front. A PHILOSOPHY Only in pages of men’s books I find Swart villain and fair knight Closing in fight. Not piebald is mankind. The soul is hued to such swift varying As flying hornet’s sunshine-smitten wing. Therefore, dear brother men (where’er ye be), Who strive for right With such short sight, ’Tis wise for little folk like you and me Neither too much to praise nor yet to blame, Since in our different ways we’re all the same. CONSOLATOR AFFLICTORUM “Must ever I be so --Yellow and old?” you asked, “With living overtasked, Ugly, and racked with pains?” I answered, “Even so, Dearest; yet love remains.” RECOGNITION By Him Who made you sweet And set your eyes so wide, Who suffered us to meet Despite of woman’s pride, And willed that we should know, Despite of man’s gross sense, The wonder and dawn-glow Of Love’s omnipotence,-- By all of this I swear, And by God’s self I vow, We have met (I know not how) Loving (I know not where): Perhaps in heaven above, Perhaps in deep perdition. And so this present love Is but a recognition. ON OVER BRIDGE AT EVENING Faint grow the hills, but yet the night delays To blot them utterly. Below their ridge Of shadow lies the city in blue haze. I watch its lamps awaken, from the bridge Whereunder, running strongly to the sea, Water goes fleeting softly in a brown Wild loveliness. In heaven two or three Small stars awaken and gaze shyly down.... White and alluring runs the dusty road Into the country, and with yellow eyes A hastening car comes purring with its load: Like some great owl it hoots, and then it flies Past, and is swallowed up in dusk. And, singing, A country girl with basket homeward wends --Sweet as the dusty roses that are clinging Around the cottage where her journey ends. Night deepens, and the stars with strengthening rays Thicken and go upon their lovely ways. Where are the voices that have vexed us so? Dear God, how quiet has Thy day become! The clamorous tongues of Earth are smitten dumb, Awed with the beauty that Thy work doth show. PASSION