Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/344

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Here is no waste,

No burning Might-have-been,

No bitter after-taste,

None to censure, none to screen,

Nothing awry, nor anything misspent;

Only content, content beyond content,

Which hath not any room for betterment.

God, who had made you valiant, strong and swift,

And maimed you with a bullet long ago,

And cleft your riotous ardour with a rift,

And checked your youth's tumultuous overflow,

Gave back your youth to you,

And packed in moments rare and few

Achievements manifold

And happiness untold,

And bade you spring to Death as to a bride,

In manhood's ripeness, power and pride,

And on your sandals the strong wings of youth.

He let you leave a name

To shine on the entablatures of truth,

Forever:

To sound forever in answering halls of fame.

For you soared onwards to that world which rags

Of clouds, like tattered flags,

Concealed; you reached the walls of chrysolite,

The mansions white;

And losing all, you gained the civic crown

Of that eternal town,

Wherein you passed a rightful citizen

Of the bright commonwealth ablaze beyond our ken.

Surely you found companions meet for you

In that high place;

You met there face to face

Those you had never known, but whom you knew;

Knights of the Table Round,

And all the very brave, the very true,

With chivalry crowned;