Walking the village street, to watch the stars and find Some peace like the old peace, some soothe for soul and mind; The noise of laughter strikes me as I move on my way Towards England--Westward--and the last glow of day. And here is the end of houses. I turn on my heel, And stay where those voices a moment made me feel As I were on Cotswold, with nothing else to do Than stare at the old houses, to taste the night-dew; To answer friendly greetings from rough voices kind.... Oh, one may try for ever to be calm and resigned, A red blind at evening sets the poor heart on fire-- Or a child’s face, a sunset--with the old hot desire. PHOTOGRAPHS (TO TWO SCOTS LADS) Lying in dug-outs, joking idly, wearily; Watching the candle guttering in the draught; Hearing the great shells go high over us, eerily Singing; how often have I turned over, and laughed With pity and pride, photographs of all colours, All sizes, subjects: khaki brothers in France; Or mothers’ faces worn with countless dolours; Or girls whose eyes were challenging and must dance, Though in a picture only, a common cheap Ill-taken card; and children--frozen, some (Babies) waiting on Dicky-bird to peep Out of the handkerchief that is his home (But he’s so shy!). And some with bright looks, calling Delight across the miles of land and sea, That not the dread of barrage suddenly falling Could quite blot out--not mud nor lethargy. Smiles and triumphant careless laughter. O The pain of them, wide Earth’s most sacred things! Lying in dugouts, hearing the great shells slow Sailing mile-high, the heart mounts higher and sings. But once--O why did he keep that bitter token Of a dead Love?--that boy, who, suddenly moved, Showed me, his eyes wet, his low talk broken, A girl who better had not been beloved. THAT COUNTY Go up, go up your ways of varying love, Take each his darling path wherever lie The central fires of secret memory; Whether Helvellyn tower the lakes above; Or black Plinlimmon time and tempest prove; Or any English heights of bravery. I will go climb my little hills to see Severn, and Malverns, May Hill’s tiny grove. No Everest is here, no peaks of power Astonish men. But on the winding ways White in the frost-time, blinding in full June blaze, A man may take all quiet heart’s delight-- Village and quarry, taverns and many a tower That saw Armada beacons set alight. INTERVAL