“Fine marnen, zür!” And the earth spoke From his mouth, as if the field dark red On our right hand had greeted me With words, that grew tall grain instead. * * * * * Oh, years ago, and near forgot! Yet, as I walked the Flemish way, An hour gone, England spoke to me As clear of speech as on that day; Since peasants by the roadway working Hailed us in tones uncouth, and one Turned his face toward the marching column, Fronted, took gladness from the sun. And straight my mind was set on singing For memory of a wrinkled face, Orchards untrodden, far to travel, Sweet to find in my own place. DRIFTING LEAVES The yellow willow leaves that float Down Severn after Autumn rains Take not of trouble any note-- Lost to the tree, its joys and pains. But man that has a thousand ties Of homage to his place of birth, Nothing surrenders when he dies; But yearns for ever to his earth-- Red ploughlands, trees that friended him, Warm house of shelter, orchard peace. In day’s last rosy influence dim They flock to us without a cease; Through fast-shut doors of olden houses In soundless night the dear dead come, Whose sorrow no live folk arouses, Running for comfort hither home. Though leaves on tide may idly range, Grounding at last on some far mire-- Our memories can never change: We are bond, we are ruled with Love’s desire. CONTRASTS If I were on the High Road That runs to Malvern Town, I should not need to read, to smoke, My fear of death to drown; Watching the clouds, skies, shadows dappling The sweet land up and down. But here the shells rush over, We lie in evil holes, We burrow into darkness Like rabbits or like moles, Men that have breathed the Severn air, Men that have eyes and souls. To-day the grass runs over With ripples like the sea, And men stand up and drink air Easy and sweet and free; But days like this are half a curse, And Beauty troubles me. The shadows under orchards there Must be as clear and black-- At Minsterworth, at Framilode-- As though we had all come back; Were out at making hay or tedding, Piling the yellow stack. The gardens grow as freshly On Cotswold’s green and white; The grey-stone cottage colours Are lovely to the sight, As we were glad for dreams there, Slept deep at home at night; While here we die a dozen deaths A score of times a day; Trying to keep up heart and not To give ourselves away. “Two years longer,” “Peace to-morrow,” “Some time yet,” they say! TO F. W. H.