Ink black and lustreless may hold A passion full of living fire: Spring’s green the Autumn does enfold-- Things precious hide their bright in the mire. And a whole county’s lovely pride In one small book I found that made More real the pictured Severn side Than crash and shock of cannonade. Beneath, more strong than that dread noise The talk I heard of trees and men, The still low-murmuring Earth-voice ... God send us dreams in peace again. THE IMMORTAL HOUR (TO WINNIE) I have forgotten where the pleasure lay In resting idle in the summer weather, Waiting on Beauty’s power my spirit to sway, Since Life has taken me and flung me hither; Here where gray day to day goes dully on, So evenly, so grayly that the heart Not notices nor cares that Time is gone That might be jewelled bright and set apart. And yet, for all this weight, there stirs in me Such music of Joy when some perceivéd flower Breaks irresistible this crust, this lethargy, I burn and hunger for that immortal hour When Peace shall bring me first to my own home, To my own hills; I’ll climb and vision afar Great cloud-fleets line on line up Severn come, Where winds of Joy shall cleanse the stain of war. TO HIS LOVE He’s gone, and all our plans Are useless indeed. We’ll walk no more on Cotswold Where the sheep feed Quietly and take no heed. His body that was so quick Is not as you Knew it, on Severn river Under the blue Driving our small boat through. You would not know him now ... But still he died Nobly, so cover him over With violets of pride Purple from Severn side. Cover him, cover him soon! And with thick-set Masses of memoried flowers-- Hide that red wet Thing I must somehow forget. MIGRANTS (TO MRS. TAYLOR) No colour yet appears On trees still summer fine, The hill has brown sheaves yet, Bare earth is hard and set; But autumn sends a sign In this as in other years. For birds that flew alone And scattered sought their food Gather in whirring bands;-- Starlings, about the lands Spring cherished, summer made good, Dark bird-clouds soon to be gone. But above that windy sound A deeper note of fear All daylight without cease Troubles the country peace; War birds, high in the air, Airplanes shadow the ground. Seawards to Africa Starlings with joy shall turn, War birds to skies of strife, Where Death is ever at Life; High in mid-air may burn Great things that trouble day. Their time is perilous, Governed by Fate obscure; But when our April comes About the thatch-eaved homes,-- Cleaving sweet air, the sure Starlings shall come to us. OLD MARTINMAS EVE