To straight the back, how good; to see the slow Dispersed cloud-flocks of Heaven wandering blind Without a shepherd, feel caress the kind Sweet August air, soft drifting to and fro Meadow and arable.--Leaning on my hoe I searched for any beauty eyes might find. The tossing wood showed silver in the wind; Green hills drowsed wakeful in the golden glow. Yet all the air was loud with mutterings, Rumours of trouble strange in that rich peace, Where War’s dread birds must practise without cease All that the stoutest pilot-heart might dare. Death over dreaming life managed his wings, Droning dull song in the sun-satiate air. DE PROFUNDIS If only this fear would leave me I could dream of Crickley Hill And a hundred thousand thoughts of home would visit my heart in sleep; But here the peace is shattered all day by the devil’s will, And the guns bark night-long to spoil the velvet silence deep. O who could think that once we drank in quiet inns and cool And saw brown oxen trooping the dry sands to slake Their thirst at the river flowing, or plunged in a silver pool To shake the sleepy drowse off before well awake? We are stale here, we are covered body and soul and mind With mire of the trenches, close clinging and foul. We have left our old inheritance, our Paradise behind, And clarity is lost to us and cleanness of soul. O blow here, you dusk-airs and breaths of half-light, And comfort despairs of your darlings that long Night and day for sound of your bells, or a sight Of your tree-bordered lanes, land of blossom and song. Autumn will be here soon, but the road of coloured leaves Is not for us, the up and down highway where go Earth’s pilgrims to wonder where Malvern upheaves That blue-emerald splendour under great clouds of snow. Some day we’ll fill in trenches, level the land and turn Once more joyful faces to the country where trees Bear thickly for good drink, where strong sunsets burn Huge bonfires of glory--O God, send us peace! Hard it is for men of moors or fens to endure Exile and hardship, or the Northland grey-drear; But we of the rich plain of sweet airs and pure, Oh! Death would take so much from us, how should we not fear? THE TOWER (TO M. H.) On the old road of Roman, on the road Of chivalry and pride--the path to Wales Famed in the chronicles and full of tales-- Westward I went, songs in my mouth, and strode Free-bodied, light of heart, Past many a heaped waggon with golden load, And rumbling carrier’s cart. When, near the bridge where snorting trains go under With noise of thunder, I turned and saw A tower stand, like an immortal law--