Spent in some sunny field of flowers When my half-opened eyes would look On some old dream-inspiring book, And not on this accursèd wheel, And on this box of wood and steel In which at pitch-and-toss with Death, I play, and wonder if each breath I tensely draw, will be my last. The happy thoughts are swiftly past-- My frightened brain forbids them stay. Dear London seems so far away, And far away my well-loved friends! Each second my existence ends In my disordered mind, whose pace I cannot check--its cog-wheels race, Like some ungoverned, whirring clock, When, frenziedly, it runs amok. I have resolved that I will climb A certain height--how slow seems time As on its sluggish pivot creeps The laggard finger-point, which keeps The truthful record. O, how slow Towards the clouds I seem to go! And then ambition gains its mark at last! The little finger o'er the point has passed! I can descend again. With conscience clear And end this battle with persistent fear! The engine's clamour dies--there is no sound Save whistling wires--as towards the ground I gently float. My agony is gone. What peace is mine as I go gliding on! Calm after storm--contentment after pain-- Soft sleep to some tempestuous, burning brain-- The soothing harbour after foamy seas-- The gentle feeling of a perfect ease-- All, all are mine--though yet by gusts distressed! Near is the ground, and with the ground comes rest. Above the trees I glide--above the grass, Above the snow-besprinkled earth I pass. I touch the ground, run swift along, and stop-- Above the wheel my tired shoulders drop. I leave my seat, and slowly move away ... Cold is the wind: the clouds are grey, I only wish my room to gain, And in some book forget my pain, And lose myself in fancied dreams Across Titania's golden streams. _France, 1917._ _Dreams of Autumn_ When through the heat of some long afternoon In blazing August, on the grass I lie, And watch the white clouds move across the sky, On whose azure is faintly etched the moon, That, when the evening deepens, will be soon The brightest figure of those hosts on high, My heart is discontented, and I sigh, For Autumn and its vapours; till I swoon Upon the vision of October days In dreaming London, when each mighty tree Sheds daily more brown showers through the haze, Which lends each street Romance and Mystery-- When pallid silver Sunshine only gleams On that grey Lovers' City of Sweet Dreams. _Isle of Grain, 1916._ _To Carlton Berry_ KILLED IN AN AEROPLANE ACCIDENT, JULY, 1916