I have seen dawn and sunset, night and morning, I have tramped tired and dusty to a tune Of singing voices tired as I, but scorning To yield up gaiety to sweltering June. O comrades marching under blazing noon Who told me tales in taverns near and far, And sang and slept with me beneath the moon; Because of you I love the name of War. But you most dear companions Life and Death, Whose friendship I had never valued well Until that Battle blew with fiery breath Over the earth his message terrible; Crying aloud the things Peace could not tell, Calling up ancient custom to the bar Of God, to plead its cause with Heaven and Hell ... Because of you I love the name of War. L’ENVOI Prince Jesu, who did speak the amazing word Loud, trumpet-clear, flame-flashing like a star Which falls: “Not peace I bring you, but the sword!” Because of you I love the name of War. SOLITARY CONFINEMENT No mortal comes to visit me to-day, Only the gay and early-rising Sun Who strolled in nonchalantly, just to say, “Good morrow, and despair not, foolish one!” But like the tune which comforted King Saul Sounds in my brain that sunny madrigal. Anon the playful Wind arises, swells Into vague music, and departing, leaves A sense of blue bare heights and tinkling bells, Audible silences which sound achieves Through music, mountain streams, and hinted heather, And drowsy flocks drifting in golden weather. Lastly, as to my bed I turn for rest. Comes Lady Moon herself on silver feet To sit with one white arm across my breast, Talking of elves and haunts where they do meet. No mortal comes to see me, yet I say “Oh, I have had fine visitors to-day!” DOUAI, _August 20th, 1916_. A RONDEL OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE Big glory mellowing on the mellowing hills, And in the little valleys, thatch and dreams, Wrought by the manifold and vagrant wills Of sun and ripening rain and wind; so gleams My country, that great magic cup which spills Into my mind a thousand thousand streams Of glory mellowing on the mellowing hills And in the little valleys, thatch and dreams. O you dear heights of blue no ploughman tills, O valleys where the curling mist upsteams White over fields of trembling daffodils, And you old dusty little water-mills, Through all my life, for joy of you, sweet thrills Shook me, and in my death at last there beams Big glory mellowing on the mellowing hills And in the little valleys, thatch and dreams. THE LITTLE ROAD