And on the Day of Days, the Judgment Day, The Word of Doom awaiting breathless and still, I’ll marvel how sweet’s the air down Framilode way, And take my sentence on sheer-down Crickley Hill. SCOTS THE boys who laughed and jested with me but yesterday, So fit for kings to speak to, so blithe and proud and gay ... Are now but thoughts of blind pain, and best hid away.... (Over the top this morning at the dawn’s first grey.) O, if we catch the Kaiser his dirty hide to flay, We’ll hang him on a tall tree his pride to allay. That will not bring the boys again to mountain and brae.... (Over the top this morning at the dawn’s first grey.) To think--earth’s best and dearest turned to red broken clay By one devil’s second! What words can we say? Or what gift has God their mothers’ anguish to repay?... (Over the top this morning at the first flush of day.) TO AN UNKNOWN LADY YOU that were once so sweet, are sweeter now That an even leaden greyness clouds my days; A pain it is to think on your sweet ways, Your careless-tender speaking, tender and low. When the hills enclosed us, hid in happy valleys, Greeting a thousand times the things most dear, We wasted thoughts of love in laughter clear, And told our passion out in mirthful sallies. But in me now a burning impulse rages To praise our love in words like flaming gold, Molten and live for ever; not fit for cold And coward like-to-passions Time assuages. Nor do I fear you are lovely only in dreams, Being as the sky reflected in clear streams. SONG AND PAIN OUT of my sorrow have I made these songs, Out of my sorrow; Though somewhat of the making’s eager pain From Joy did borrow. Some day, I trust, God’s purpose of Pain for me Shall be complete, And then--to enter in the House of Joy.... Prepare, my feet. PURPLE AND BLACK THE death of princes is Honoured most greatly, Proud kings put purple on In manner stately. Though they have lived such life As God offends, Gone fearful down to death, Sick, without friends. And in the temple dim, Trumpets of gold Proclaim their glory; so Their story is told. In sentimental hymns Weeping her dolour, The mother of heroes wears Vile black--Death’s colour, Who should walk proudly with The noblest one Of all that purple throng-- “This was my son.” WEST COUNTRY SPRING comes soon to Maisemore And spring comes sweet, With bird-songs and blue skies, On gay dancing feet; But she is such a shy lady I fear we’ll never meet. Yet some day round a corner Where the hedge foams white, I’ll find Spring sleeping In the young-crescent night, And seize her and make her Yield all her delight.