They spoil the nest of plover And lark, turn up, uncover The bones of many a lover Unfamed in tales; Arrows, old flints of hammers, The rooks with hungry clamours Hover around and settle Seeking full meals. Who knows what splendid story Lies here, what hidden glory Of brave defeat or victory This earth might show. None cares; the surging horses Gather untiring forces The keen-eyed farmer after Guiding the plough. RECOMPENSE (TO THE MEN OF THE 2/5 GLOUCESTER REGIMENT) I’d not have missed one single scrap of pain That brought me to such friends, and them to me; And precious is the smallest agony, The greatest, willingly to bear again-- Cruel frost, night vigils, death so often ta’en By Golgothas untold from Somme to Sea. Duty’s a grey thing; Friendship valorously Rides high above all Fortune without stain. Their eyes were stars within the blackest night Of Evil’s trial. Never mariner Did trust so in the ever-fixéd star As I in those. And so their laughter sounded-- Trumpets of Victory glittering in sunlight; Though Hell’s power ringed them in, and night surrounded. THE TRYST (TO W. M. C.) In curtain of the hazel wood, From sunset to the clear-of-star, An hour or more I feared, but stood-- My lover’s road was far. Until within the ferny brake Stirred patter feet and silver talk That set all horror wide awake-- I fear the fairy folk ... That bind with chains and change a maid From happy smiling to a thing Better in ground unhallowed laid Where holy bells not ring. And whether late he came or soon I know not, through a rush of air Along the white road under the moon I sped, till the golden square Showed of the blind lamplighted; then, My hand on heart, I slackened, stood ... Though Robin be the man of men, I’ll walk no more that wood. THE PLAIN The plain’s a waste of evil mire, And dead of colour, sodden-grey, The trees are ruined, crumbled the spire That once made glad the innocent day. The host of flowers are buried deep With friends of mine who held them dear; Poor shattered loveliness asleep, Dreaming of April’s covering there. Oh, if the Bringer of Spring does care For Duty valorously done, Then what sweet breath shall scent the air! What colour-blaze outbrave the sun! RUMOURS OF WARS (TO MRS. VOYNICH) On Sussex hills to-day Women stand and hear The guns at work alway, Horribly, terribly clear. The doors shake, on the wall The kitchen vessels move, The brave heart not at all May soothe its tortured love, Nor hide from truth, nor find Comfort in lies. No prayer May calm. All’s naught. The mind Waits on the throbbing air.