If he is dead, then I abide to prove That brief fulfilment may be perfect love. How should I grieve? His life inspired in me A joy that shall outlive eternity, Wrought out, complete, unsnared by time and age My jewelled past my priceless heritage. Shall misery usurp my realm of years And leave me drowning in self-pitying tears, A derelict in my own whirlpool swirled-- Me--whom Love crowned an empress of the world? But sometimes ’ere the light Glimmers dawn-pearled to splash the feet of night, Ere red, sun-gilded riot floods the sky, A whisper, swelling to a ringing cry, Tells me he’s living still. No lash could sting Like this persistent voice re-echoing That mocks me as I stumble to my feet. O, shall I find him wandering in the street? But every beckoning corner drags me past Strangers, new faces, each one like the last Dull, cold, inscrutable. At times I caught The look--the walk--the gesture that I sought; And once with throbbing veins I found those eyes That shone like pools in sea-blue ecstasies, But looked beyond me--cold expressionless In vacant wonder at my helplessness, Then, haunted by that stare, Beaten, I knew the bedrock of despair. O, Thou who poised the world, are all my tears Too light, too pitiful to reach Thine ears? Locksmith of happiness, aloof, apart, Am I too impotent to touch Thine heart? Tell me he’s dead or dying; say he stands Seeking for guidance the warm touch of hands, Doomed in an instant to eternal night, With only mind and memory for sight-- For I could cheer him. But Lord quench this drought, The unfathomable immensity of doubt, Tell me he’s maimed or crippled, torn or blind, Staring through eyes that show his wandering mind-- Tell me he’s rotting in a place abhorred,-- Not this, not this, O Lord! TWO TRENCH POEMS I THE STORM NIGHT Peal after peal of splitting thunder rolls (Still roar the howling guns, and star-shells rise) We perish, drowned in anger-blasted holes, Give ear, O Lord! Our very manhood cries, Shell-fodder yea--but spare our human souls From fury-shaken skies! II RESURRECTION Five million men are dead. How can the worth Of all the world redeem such waste as this? And yet the spring is clamorous of birth, And whispering in winter’s chrysalis Glad tidings to each clod, each particle of earth. So the year’s Easter triumphs. Shall we then Mourn for the dead unduly, and forget The resurrection in the hearts of men? Even the poppy on the parapet Shall blossom as before when Summer blows again. GOMMECOURT I