It was Thy will, O God. And so he died! For seventeen sweet years he was a child Upon whose grace Thy loving-kindness smiled, For he was clean, and full of youthful pride; And, when his years drew on, then Thou denied That he by man's estate should be defiled, And so Thou call'st him to Thy presence mild To be with Thee for ever, by Thy side. Nor is he dead! He lives in three great spheres. His soul is with Thee in Thy home above: His influence,--with friends of former years: His memory with those he used to love. He is an emblem of that Trinity With whom he lives in happy ecstasy. _Isle of Grain, 1916._ _London in May_ Two long, full years have passed since I have smelt Sweet London in this happy month of May! Last year relentless War bore me away To Imbros Isle, where six sad months I dwelt Beneath a burning sun--nor ever felt One breath of gentle Spring blow o'er the bay Between whose sun-dried hills so long I lay A restless captive. Now has Fortune dealt More kindly with me: once again I know The drowsy languor of the afternoons: The soft white clouds: the may-tree's whiter snow: The star-bound evenings, and the ivory moons. My heart, dear God! leaps up till it is pain With thanks to Thee that I am here again. _London._ _A Fallen Leaf_ When Death has crossed my name from out the roll Of dreaming children serving in this War; And with these earthly eyes I gaze no more Upon sweet England's grace--perhaps my soul Will visit streets down which I used to stroll At sunset-charmèd dusks, when London's roar Like ebbing surf on some Atlantic shore Would trance the ear. Then may I hear no toll Of heavy bells to burden all the air With tuneless grief: for happy will I be!-- What place on earth could ever be more fair Than God's own presence?--Mourn not then for me, Nor write, I pray, "_He gave_"--upon my clod-- "_His life to England_," but "_his soul to God_." _Isle of Sheppey, 1917._ _The Star_ I stood, one azure dusk, in old Auxerre Before the grey Cathedral's towering height, And in the Eastern darkness, very fair I saw a little star that twinkled bright; How small it looked beside the mighty pile, Whose stone was rosy with the Western glow-- A little star--I pondered for a while, And then the solemn truth began to know. That tiny star was some enormous sphere, The great cathedral was an atomy-- So often when grey trouble looms so near That God shines in our minds but distantly,-- If we but thought, our grief would seem so small That we would see that God's great love was all. _France, 1917._ _Islington_