And the white-clad girl at the old farm, Who smiled and looked across at me, Dumb was held by that strong charm Of cloud-ships sailing a foamless sea. IN A WARD (TO J. W. H.) O wind that tosses free The children’s hair; Scatters the blossom of Apple and pear; Blow in my heart, touch me, Gladden me here. You have seen so many things-- Blow in and tell Tales of white sand and golden ’Gainst the sea swell. Bring me fine meadow-thoughts, Fresh orchard smell. Here we must stare through glass To see the sun-- Stare at flat ceilings white Till day is done: While you, sunshine, starshine, May out and run. Blow in and bring us all Dear home-delight-- Green face of the Spring earth, Blue of deep night. Blot each of our faces From the others’ sight. CAMPS Out of the line we rest in villages Quiet indeed, where heal the spirit’s scars; But even so, lapped deep in sunshine and ease, We are haunted for ever by the shapes of wars. Green in the sun they lie, secret, deserted, Lovely against the blue the summits show, Where once the bright steel sang, the red blood spurted, And brave men cowed their terrors long ago. By day their life was easy; but at night, Even now, one hears strange rustlings in the bush; And, straining tensely doubtful ear and sight, The stealthy moving ere the sudden rush; And flinches from the spear. War’s just-bright embers That Earth still keeps and treasures for the pride In sacrifice there shown; with love remembers The beauty and quick strength of men that died. Who died as we may die, for Freedom, beauty Of common living, calmly led in peace, Yet took the flinty road and hard of duty, Whose end was life abundant and increase. But--when Heaven’s gate wide opening receives us Victors and full of song, forgetting scars; Shall we see to stir old memories, to grieve us, Heaven’s never-yet-healed sores of Michael’s wars? GIRL’S SONG The tossing poplar in the wind Shows underleaf of silver-white; The roughness of the wind unkind Torments her out of all delight. But O that he were here Whose blows and whose caresses alike were dear! The great oak to the tearing blast Stands steady with strong arms held wide, So over him my anger passed, When his rough usage hurt my pride. But O that once again I might arouse that passion, endure that pain! SOLACE OF MEN