Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/291

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The passion that they show me burns so high;

Their love, in me who have not looked on love,

So fiercely flames; so wildly comes the cry

Of stricken women, the warrior's call above,

That I would gladly lay me down and die

To wake again where Helen and Hector move.

The falling rain is music overhead,

The dark night, lit by no intruding star,

Fit covering yields to thoughts that roam afar

And turn again familiar paths to tread,

Where many a laden hour too quickly sped

In happier times, before the dawn of war,

Before the spoiler had whet his sword to mar

The faithful living and the mighty dead.

It is not that my soul is weighed with woe,

But rather wonder, seeing they do but sleep.

As birds that in the sinking summer sweep

Across the heaven to happier climes to go,

So they are gone; and sometimes we must weep,

And sometimes, smiling, murmur, "Be it so!" Henry William Hutchinson

N our hill-country of the North,

The rainy skies are soft and grey,

And rank on rank the clouds go forth,

And rain in orderly array

Treads the mysterious flanks of hills

That stood before our race began,

And still shall stand when Sorrow spills

Her last tear on the dust of man.

There shall the mists in beauty break

And clinging tendrils finely drawn,

A rose and silver glory make

About the silent feet of dawn;