But then, I thought, the fair green sod Will wholly cover that white stain, And soften, as it clothes the face Of those old barrows, every trace Of violence to the patient plain. And careless people, passing by, Will speak of both in casual tone: Saying: ’You see the toil they made: The age of iron, pick, and spade, Here jostles with the Age of Stone.’ Yet either from that happier race Will merit but a passing glance; And they will leave us both alone: Poor savages who wrought in stone-- Poor savages who fought in France. WINTER SUNSET Athwart the blackening bars of pines benighted, The sun, descending to the zones of denser Cloud that o’erhung the long horizon, lighted Upon the crown of earth a flaming censer From which white clouds of incense, overflowing, Filled the chill clarity from whence the swallows Had lately fled with wreathèd vapours, showing Like a fine bloom over the lonely fallows: Where, with the pungent breath of mist was blended A faint aroma of pine-needles sodden By autumn rains, and fainter still, ascended Beneath high woods the scent of leaves downtrodden. It was a moment when the earth, that sickened For Spring, as lover when the beloved lingers, Lay breathless, while the distant goddess quickened Some southern hill-side with her glowing fingers: And so, it seemed, the drowsy lands were shaken, Stirred in their sleep, and sighed, as though the pain Of a strange dream had bidden them awaken To frozen days and bitter nights again. SONG Why have you stolen my delight In all the golden shows of Spring When every cherry-tree is white And in the limes the thrushes sing, O fickler than the April day, O brighter than the golden broom, O blyther than the thrushes’ lay, O whiter than the cherry-bloom, O sweeter than all things that blow ... Why have you only left for me The broom, the cherry’s crown of snow, And thrushes in the linden-tree? ENGLAND--APRIL, 1918 Last night the North flew at the throat of Spring With spite to tear her greening banners down, Tossing the elm-tree’s tender tassels brown, The virgin blossom of sloe burdening With colder snow; beneath his frosty sting Patient, the newly-wakened woods were bowed By drownèd fields where stormy waters flowed: Yet, on the thorn, I heard a blackbird sing.... ’Too late, too late,’ he sang, ’this wintry spite; For molten snow will feed the springing grass: The tide of life, it floweth with the year.’ O England, England, thou that standest upright Against the tide of death, the bad days pass: Know, by this miracle, that summer is near. SLENDER THEMES