After the biting cold of the outer night It seemed--(“Le Coq Français”)--a palace of light, And its low roof black-timbered was most fine After the iron and sandbags of the line. Easy it was to be happy there! Madame, Frying a savoury mess of eggs and ham, Talking the while: of the War, of the crops, her son Who should see to them, and would, when the War was done. Of battalions who had passed there, happy as we To find a house so clean, such courtesy Simple, sincere; after vigils of frost The place seemed the seventh Heaven of comfort; lost In miraculous strange peace and warmth we’d sit Till the prowling police hunted us out of it-- Away from café noir, café au lait, vin blanc, Vin rouge, citron, all that does belong To the kindly shelter of old estaminets, Nooked and cornered, with mirth of firelight ablaze-- Herded us into billets; where candles must show Little enough comfort after the steady glow Of that wonderful fireshine. We must huddle us close In blankets, hiding all but the crimson nose, To think awhile of home, if the frost would let Thought flow at all; then sleep, sleep to forget All but home and old rambles, lovely days Of maiden April, glamorous September haze, All darling things of life, the sweet of desire-- Castles of Spain in the deep heart of the fire. THE FISHERMAN OF NEWNHAM (TO MY FATHER) When I was a boy at Newnham, For every tide that ran Swift on its way to Bollo, I wished I were a man To sail out and discover Where such a tide began. But when my strength came on me ’Tis I must earn my bread: My Father set me fishing By Frampton Hock, instead Of wandering to the ocean-- Wherever Severn led. And now I’ve come to manhood, Too many cares have I To think of gallivanting (A wife and child forbye). So I must wonder ever Until time comes to die. Then I shall question Peter Upon the heavenly floor, What makes the tide in rivers-- How comes the Severn bore, And all things he will tell me I never knew before. THE LOCK-KEEPER (TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD THOMAS)