Perhaps some day I shall not shrink in pain To see the passing of the dying year, And listen to the Christmas songs again, Although You cannot hear. But, though kind Time may many joys renew, There is one greatest joy I shall not know Again, because my heart for loss of You Was broken, long ago. 1ST LONDON GENERAL HOSPITAL, _February 1916._ A MILITARY HOSPITAL A MASS of human wreckage, drifting in Borne on a blood-red tide, Some never more to brave the stormy sea Laid reverently aside, And some with love restored to sail again For regions far and wide. 1ST LONDON GENERAL HOSPITAL, _1916_. LOOKING WESTWARD “For a while the quiet body Lies with feet toward the Morn.” HYMN 499, A. & M. WHEN I am dead, lay me not looking East, But towards the verge where daylight sinks to rest, For my Beloved, who fell in War’s dark year, Lies in a foreign meadow, facing West. He does not see the Heavens flushed with dawn, But flaming through the sunset’s dying gleam; He is not dazzled by the Morning Star, But Hesper soothes him with her gentle beam. He faces not the guns he thrilled to hear, Nor sees the skyline red with fires of Hell; He looks for ever towards that dear home land He loved, but bade a resolute farewell. So would I, when my hour has come for sleep, Lie watching where the twilight shades grow grey; Far sooner would I share with him the Night Than pass without him to the Splendid Day. THEN AND NOW “πάντα ῤει καἰ ούδένα μένει” ONCE the black pine-trees on the mountain side, The river dancing down the valley blue, And strange brown grasses swaying with the tide, All spoke to me of you. But now the sullen streamlet creeping slow, The moaning tree-tops dark above my head, The weeds where once the grasses used to grow Tell me that you are dead. MAY MORNING (_Note._--At Oxford on May 1st a Latin hymn is sung at sunrise by the Magdalen choristers from the top of the tower.) THE rising sun shone warmly on the tower, Into the clear pure Heaven the hymn aspired Piercingly sweet. This was the morning hour When life awoke with Spring’s creative power, And the old City’s grey to gold was fired. Silently reverent stood the noisy throng; Under the bridge the boats in long array Lay motionless. The choristers’ far song Faded upon the breeze in echoes long. Swiftly I left the bridge and rode away. Straight to a little wood’s green heart I sped, Where cowslips grew, beneath whose gold withdrawn The fragrant earth peeped warm and richly red; All trace of Winter’s chilling touch had fled, And song-birds ushered in the year’s bright morn.