The moon, one tree, one star, Still meadows far, Enwreathed and scarfed by phantom lines of white. November’s night Of all her nights, I thought, and turned to see Again that moon and star-supporting tree. If some most quiet tune had spoken then; Some silver thread of sound; a core within That sea-deep silentness, I had not known Ever such joy in peace, but sound was none-- Nor should be till birds roused to find the dawn. AFTER MUSIC Why, I am on fire now, and tremulous With sense of Beauty long denied; the first Opening of floodgate to the glorious burst Of Freedom from the Fate that limits us To work in darkness pining for the light, Thirsting for sweet untainted draughts of air, Clouds sunset coloured, Music ... O Music’s bare White heat of silver passion fiercely bright! While sweating at the foul task, we can taste No Joy that’s clean, no Love but something lets It from its power; the wisest soul forgets What’s beautiful, or delicate, or chaste. Orpheus drew me (as once his bride) from Hell. If wisely, her or me, the Gods can tell. THE TARGET I shot him, and it had to be One of us! ’Twas him or me. “Couldn’t be helped,” and none can blame Me, for you would do the same. My mother, she can’t sleep for fear Of what might be a-happening here To me. Perhaps it might be best To die, and set her fears at rest. For worst is worst, and worry’s done. Perhaps he was the only son ... Yet God keeps still, and does not say A word of guidance any way. Well, if they get me, first I’ll find That boy, and tell him all my mind, And see who felt the bullet worst, And ask his pardon, if I durst. All’s a tangle. Here’s my job. A man might rave, or shout, or sob; And God He takes no sort of heed. This is a bloody mess indeed. TWIGWORTH VICARAGE (TO A. H. C.) Wakened by birds and sun, laughter of the wind, A man might see all heart’s desire by raising His pillowed sleepy head (still apt for lazing And drowsy thought)--but then a green most kind Waved welcome, and the rifted sky behind Showed blue, whereon cloud-ships full-sailed went racing, Man to delight and set his heart on praising The Maker of all things, bountiful-hearted, kind. May Hill, that half-revealéd tree-clad thing, Maisemore’s delightful ridge, where Severn flowing Nourished a wealth of lovely wild things blowing Sweet as the air--Wainlodes and Ashleworth To northward showed, a land where a great king Might sit to receive homage from the whole earth. _HOSPITAL PICTURES_ (TO THE NURSES OF WARD 24, BANGOUR WAR HOSPITAL, NEAR EDINBURGH) 1. LADIES OF CHARITY