But yon’s a glad story That’s yet to be told. Here’s grey winter’s bareness And no-shadowed cold. O Spring, with your music, Your blue, green, and gold, Come shame his hard wisdom With laughter and gold! FIRELIGHT SILENT, bathed in firelight, in dusky light and gloom The boys squeeze together in the smoky dirty room, Crowded round the fireplace, a thing of bricks and tin, They watch the shifting embers till the good dreams enter in, That fill the low hovel with blossoms fresh with dew, And blue sky and white clouds that sail the clear air through. They talk of daffodillies and the bluebells’ skiey bed, Till silence thrills and murmurs at the things they have said. And yet, they have no skill of words, whose eyes glow so deep, They wait for night and silence and the strange power of sleep, To lift them and drift them like sea-birds over the sea Where some day I shall walk again, and they walk with me. THE ESTAMINET THE crowd of us were drinking One night at Riez Bailleul, The glasses were a-clinking, The estaminet was full; And loud with song and story And blue with tales and smoke,-- We spoke no word of glory, Nor mentioned “foreign yoke.” But yarns of girls in Blighty; Vain, jolly, ugly, fair, Standoffish, foolish, flighty-- And O! that we were there! Where never thuds a “Minnie,” But Minnie smiles at you A-meeting in the spinney, With kisses not a few. And of an inn that Johnson Does keep; the “Rising Sun.” His friends him call Jack Johnson, He’s Gloster’s only one. And talk of poachers’ habits (But girls ever and again) Of killing weasels, rabbits, Stoats, pheasants, never men, Although we knew to-morrow Must take us to the line, In beer hid thought and sorrow, In ruddy and white wine. When all had finished drinking, Though still was clear each head, We said no word--went slinking Straight homeward (?), into bed (?). O never lads were merrier Nor straighter nor more fine, Though we were only “Terrier” And only, “Second Line.” O I may get to Blighty, Or hell, without a sign Of all the love that filled me, Leave dumb the love that filled me, The flood of love that filled me For these dear comrades of mine. SONG ONLY the wanderer Knows England’s graces, Or can anew see clear Familiar faces. And who loves joy as he That dwells in shadows? Do not forget me quite, O Severn meadows. BALLAD OF THE THREE SPECTRES AS I went up by Ovillers In mud and water cold to the knee, There went three jeering, fleering spectres, That walked abreast and talked of me.