HARK, hark, the lark to heaven’s gate uprisen, Pours out his joy ... I think of you, shut in some distant prison, O Boy, poor Boy; Your heart grown sick with hope deferred and shadows Of prison ways; Not daring to snatch a thought of Severn meadows, Or old blue-days. SONG AT MORNING PRAISE for the day’s magnificent uprising! Praise for the cool Air and the blue new-old ever-surprising Face of the sky, and mirrored blue of the pool. Only the fool, bat-witted, owl-eyed fool Can hold a deaf ear while life begins The actual opening of a myriad stories.... Blindness, ingratitude, the foolishest sins! Now if this day blot out my chief desires, And leave me maimed and blind and full of hot Surges of insurrection, evil fires, Memories of joys that seem better forgot; Quiet me then. Thy Will is binding on the nearest flower As on the farthest star; and what shall put me Out of Thy power, or from Thy guidance far, Though I in hell of my self-will would shut me? But if Thy Will be joy for me to-day, Give me clear eyes, a heart open to feel Thy influence, Thy kindness: O unseal The shut, the hidden places in me, reveal Those things most precious secretly hidden away From all save children and the simply wise. Give me clear eyes! And strength to know, whatever may befall, The eternal presence of great mysteries, Glorifying Thee for all. TREES (“You cannot think how ghastly these battle-fields look under a grey sky. Torn trees are the most terrible things I have ever seen. Absolute blight and curse is on the face of everything.”) THE dead land oppressed me; I turned my thoughts away, And went where hill and meadow Are shadowless and gay. Where Coopers stands by Cranham, Where the hill-gashes white Show golden in the sunshine, Our sunshine--God’s delight. Beauty my feet stayed at last Where green was most cool, Trees worthy of all worship I worshipped ... then, O fool, Let my thoughts slide unwitting To other, dreadful trees, ... And found me standing, staring Sick of heart--at these! REQUIEM POUR out your light, O stars, and do not hold Your loveliest shining from earth’s outworn shell-- Pure and cold your radiance, pure and cold My dead friend’s face as well. REQUIEM NOR grief nor tears should wrong the silent dead Save England’s, for her children fallen so far From her eager care; though by God’s justice led And fallen in such a war. REQUIEM POUR out your bounty, moon of radiant shining On all this shattered flesh, these quiet forms; For these were slain, so strangely still reclining, In the noblest cause was ever waged with arms. SONNETS 1917 [_TO_ THE MEMORY OF RUPERT BROOKE] 1. FOR ENGLAND