Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/309

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May go believing there's no dearth

Of glory yet upon the Earth,—

A glory, not of fire and smoke

And things that burst and blind and choke,

A wonder, not of eyes that turn

To some new thing to blast and burn,

A wisdom, not of thrusts and stabs

And stripes and stars and scarlet tabs,

A worship, not of poisoned breath

And little children done to death,—

These shall delight my soul at last

When then is now and now is past,

Where the many-scented dews distil

In the wood by Highgate on the Hill.

There I shall find forgotten themes,

And empty husks of faded dreams

Whose seed, far scattered, soon or late,

Shall find soil and germinate;

Remember I am still a boy

And haply rediscover joy,

Youth and all that follows after

Vanished vision and lost laughter.

All the wood will shout and sing

At my great remembering,

Ev'ry leaf will be a voice

Tuned to welcome and rejoice,

Sky and wind and blade and tree

Stretch forth hands to welcome me.

Deep in the wood lie hidden springs

Of half of life's delightful things.

A stirring leaf, a bird in flight

Will start soft flames of coloured light

That leap and dance and flash and burn

Through waving grass and feathery fern.

Music will tell an ancient tale

When moonrise wakes a nightingale.

Here is the rich, sweet smell of earth,

Movement and melody and mirth: