All night we prowled the stricken No Man's Land, And the high stars looked down dispassionate. I wondered if they could but understand That we poor grovelling things were fighters yet. Fighters, O God! Begrimed, intent to kill, But starting at all the secret noises near. We'd sent our hearts to sleep; but mind and will Fought the cold duel with children's night-born fear. The haunted silence quenched the stir of fight, The tainted wind no word of courage spoke. We turned at last: sudden the grass dew-white Smelt as it does at home: my heart awoke. God sent one bird to sing: the old sun came And lit the Eastern skies with orange flame. THE MONK'S FANCY The old monk down by the sea-beach listening, Thought that the waves were singing a song, And the wheeling gulls in the sea-spray glistening Wheeled with the music that bore them along. Day after day by the sea-beach dreaming, The old monk heard what the sea-song told, And he set the tale in the great book gleaming With beautiful colours and letters of gold. But one word only he set to flame there, And naught of the tale but that golden word, And sadly said all the men that came there That none could know what the old monk heard. AN ALPINE PICTURE The earth beneath this awful snow No feet have ever trod, These icy peaks could never know The smile of any God. And as I watch I know again Cruel tales I dare not tell, Of legions of forsaken men Who freeze in Dante's hell. _G. H. JOHNSTONE_ (_MERTON_) OXFORD IN MAY When we have snapped the chain of tranquil youth, And run to revel in the loud World's Fair, And straddled on the painted roundabouts, Clapping our hands at clowns, and horns that blare; O heart of mine, when it grows late, and all The noisy tents flap dully on the grey Shivers of evening, and the Showman locks The clamorous booths, and sends the crowd away; When we have found how terrible is age, And how men piped for us to dance, and we Danced, till we caught them laughing through the tune, And turned away, sick at their mockery: Then in the silent room, with the lamp lit, We shall remember the still summer nights, The gold moon rising over Magdalen Bridge, And how the curving High was gemmed with lights. _C. H. B. KITCHIN_ (_EXETER_) SOMME FILM, 1916 For you at least, sweet wanderers in the dark, There is no cause to cry from cypress-trees To a forgetful world; since you are seen Of all twice nightly at the cinema, While the munition-makers clap their hands. ESCHATOLOGICAL SONNET