You from Givenchy, since no years can harden The beautiful dead, when holy twilight reaches The sleeping cedar and the copper beeches, Return to walk again in Wadham Garden. We, growing old, grow stranger to the College, Symbol of youth, where we were young together, But you, beyond the reach of time and weather, Of youth in death for ever keep the knowledge. We hoard our youth, we hoard our youth, and fear it, But you, who freely gave what we have hoarded, Are with the final goal of youth rewarded The road to travel and the traveller’s spirit. And, therefore, when for us the stars go down, Your star is steady over Oxford Town. ENGLAND. Dear English heart, the open waterways, The sea that is aware of liberty, And your great ships, her servitors, the sea Deep, as your depths, saying of pomp and blaze, “These things are not for us,” since other days Return, and when the flag is shaken free, Cold captains, Drake and Nelson, watch with thee, Whose eyes, of boastings cleared and empty praise, Beyond the wrecked armadas find the soul That unto battle brings our captains’ test: “Triumph is good, but honour still is best. Conquest of what is evil, and no goal Of self-advancement. For the world set free The ships of England keep the English sea.” THE MOON IN FLANDERS. Soldiers that after struggle in the night See the cold stars assume their shining place, Watch the sweet moon and her unaltered grace Mocking with peace the battle-tortured sight, Think these not careless. These were not less white Long years ago upon the upturned face Of other soldiers also of your race Who on those fields fought such another fight, These stars, this moon, in their high citadel Of heaven are witness in the Low Country, Whose lights are the mere lights of history Falling on you, these on your fathers fell. See through the reek and horror, shining through, Cold lights indeed, but lights of Waterloo! THE SOLDIER SPEAKS. This then was love of women. O how little Remembered, being free! Say she was tender And had a lure of the hands. Here ruthless splendour Outlures that lure. And, look you, love was brittle That broke, and none could heal it, being sated. But this is lasting, this is always stranger Each terrible new dawn, for each new danger May be the last of all. O, we have waited On love like cowards, and the worshipped woman Enslaved and shamed us. But that shame is over. We are with death acquainted, and to riot And call of blood and tenderness and human Regrets, he does succeed this final lover Whose love is freedom and whose gift is quiet. FLOWERS AT HAMPTON COURT.