But not for ever shall our travail last, And not for ever we Be held by iron Duty over sea. The image of evil shall be overcast, And all his willing slaves and priests of evil Scattered like dust, shall lie upon the plain; That image, ground to dust utterly level With unregarded weeds and all as vain. The oppressed shall lift their hearts up once again, And we return.... Not to scarred lands and homes laid in the dust, Not with hard hearts to sights that sear and burn, But with assured longing and certain trust, To England’s royal grace and dignity, To England’s changing skies, rich greenery, High strength controlled, queenly serenity, Inviolate kept by her confederate sea And hearts resolved to every sacrifice. We shall come home, We shall come home again, Living and dead, one huge victorious host-- The dead that would not leave their comrades till The last steep were topped of the difficult hill, The last farthing paid of the Great Cost, The last thrill suffered of the Great Pain. Living and dead, we shall come home at last To her sweet breast, England’s; by one touch be paid in full For all things grey and long and terrible Of that dread night which seemed eternity. O Mother, shall thy kisses not restore Body and life-sick soul? Yes, and set free Songs and great floods of lovelier melody Than thou didst give When we those days of half-awake did live. And joy must surely flower again more fair To us, who dwelt in shadows and foul air. We’ll breathe and drink in song. Spring shall blot out all traces of old care; Her clouds of green and waves of gold among We shall grow free of heart, and great, and young-- Be made anew in that Great Resurrection, Perfect as is the violet’s perfection. Perfect as she Who sanctifies our memory with sorrow, Hugs, as a mother hugs, the thoughts that harrow, Watching for dawn, hungering for the morrow Lone oversea.... I am dumb now, dumb, But in that time what music shall not come? Mother of Beauty, Mistress of the Sea. JUNE--TO--COME WHEN the sun’s fire and gold Sets the bee humming, I will not write to tell Him that I’m coming, But ride out unawares On that old road, Of Minsterworth, of Peace, Of Framilode, And walk, not looked for, in That cool, dark passage. Never a single word; Myself my message. And then; well ... O we’ll drift And stand and gaze, And wonder how we could In those Bad Days Live without Minsterworth; Or western air Fanning the hot cheek, Stirring the hair; In land where hate of men God’s love did cover; This land.... And here’s my dream Irrevocably over. “HARK, HARK, THE LARK”