She was a kind land to me once, Charley, I had real joy in her once; Her folk loved Shakespeare and Byron, Shunned no dreamer for a dunce. They sang old folk songs, noble opera; Read Anglo-Saxon, old quaint sweets; And there were no starved souls in her temples, And no begging men in her streets. But a hand ever cut my Heaven With the sharpness of a sword, There was the very riot of gladness, Reckless squander of Joy's hoard; Lechery and sad Corruption Danced in clinging robes of Light; Beauty smiled in the arms of Terror And diced with the minions of Night. And you sprang to England's banner, comrade, With glad praises on your lips, To the song of her sabres ringing And the thunder of her ships. But a sword broods in the darkness Whose sweep is the wind's sway, And the dumb white ships of Heaven Bear dimly Earth's glory away. The still white ships of Heaven Steal out beneath the stars; And the grieving, sorrowing sailors Are the dead men of the wars. They reck not of the chilly seas That wildly round them churn. And the dusk scatters before the prows, And the leaping waters burn. The pirate fleets of Heaven Sweep forth into the night, Laden with spoils of the living, Their jewels of delight, Their topazes and rubies, The bawds that gave them pleasure; And the sad thieves reef the swelling sails, And steal from Earth her treasure. And the night hangs heavy on you, comrade, And the bitter War goes on. You are parched for Heaven's starlight And her soft, refreshing sun. Joy runs with a passion of swiftness On the gray feet of the wind. The doors of darkness tremble; Then swing back blind. But you'll be a new man, one day, Where the west wind thrills. You'll walk with your olden vigour Where Heaven clasps the great lone hills. And the evening sun will squander Soft lustre of red wine, And we'll drink the ripest vintage Where the sun and stars shine. For the Lord is kind to fishers Of the river and the sea, For the sake of Simon Peter And the lads of Galilee; For the sake of Simon Peter, Who so lightly would us shrive, We will drink the wine of Heaven And give praise we are alive. All our days will shine with gladness, All our nights with rich repose; Laughter will breathe from our spirits Like the sweet scent from the rose. And Joy in glittering armour Will go forth as with a sword, When we climb the fells together To the glory of the Lord. Sweet sounds will rise from the moorland, And bird and bee awake. Beauty will break and blossom For each stricken soldier's sake. Oh, your heart will leap with joy, Charley, And your spirit know rest, When we fish a little river I've heard singing in the West! [1] The Saint Peter's Inn at Walporzheim, Ahrdale. ALTENAHR, 1915