Joking, friendly-quarrelling, holiday-making, Eddying hither, thither, without stay That concourse went, squibs, crackers, squibbing, cracking-- Laughter gay All common-jovial noises sounded, bugles triumphing masterful, strident, clear above all, Hail fellow, cat-call ... Yet one discerned A new spirit learnt of pain, some great Acceptance out of hard endurance learned And truly; wrested bare of hand from Fate. The soldier from his body slips the pack, Staggers, relaxes, crouches, then lies back, Glad for the end of torment. Here was more. A sense of consummation undeserved, Desire fulfilled beyond dreams, completion Humbly accepted,--a proud and grateful nation Took the reward of purpose had not swerved, But steadily before Saw out, with equal mind, through alternation Of hope and doubt--a four-year purge of fire Changing with sore Travail the flawed spirit, cleansing desire. And glad was I: Glad--who had seen By Somme and Ancre too many comrades lie. It was as if the Woman’s spirit moved That multitude, never of Man that pays So lightly for the treasure of his days-- Of some woman that too greatly had beloved Yet, willing, half her care of life foregone; Best half of being losing with her son, Beloved, beautiful, born-of-agony One.... The dull skies wept still. Drooped suddenly Flags all. No triumph there. Belgium, the Stars and Stripes, Gaul, Italy, Britain, assured Mistress, Queen of the Sea, Forlorn colours showed; rags glory-bare. Night came, starless, to blur all things over That strange assort of Life; Sister, and lover, Brother, child, wife, Parent--each with his thought, careless or passioned, Of those who gave their frames of flesh to cover From spoil their land and folk, desperately fashioned Fate stubborn to their will. Rain fell, miserably, miserably, and still The strange crowd clamoured till late, eddied, clamoured, Mixed, mused, drifted.... The Day of Victory. PASSIONATE EARTH (TO J. W. H.) Where the new-turned ploughland runs to clean Edges of sudden grass-land, lovely, green-- Music, music clings, music exhales, And inmost fragrance of a thousand tales. There the heart lifts, the soul takes flight to sing High at Heaven-gate; but loth for entering Lest there such brown and green it never find; Nor feel the sting Of such a beauty left so far behind. THE POPLAR (TO MICKY) A tall slim poplar That dances in A hidden corner Of the old garden, What is it in you Makes communion With this wind of Autumn, The clouds, the sun? You must be lonely Amidst round trees With their matron-figures And stubborn knees, Casting hard glances Of keen despite On the lone girl that dances Silvery white.