Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/158

 And hands that knew a dearer hand than life,

Were hewn—a sacrifice before the stars,

And left with hooting owls and blowing clouds,

And falling leaves and solitary wings!

Aye, you may see their graves—you who have toiled

And tripped and thirsted, like these men of ours;

For, verily, I say that not so deep

Their bones are that the scattered drift and dust

Of gusty days will never leave them bare.

O dear, dead, bleaching bones! I know of those

Who have the wild, strong will to go and sit

Outside all things with you, and keep the ways

Aloof from bats, and snakes, and trampling feet

That smite your peace and theirs—who have the heart,

Without the lusty limbs, to face the fire

And moonless midnights, and to be, indeed,

For very sorrow, like a moaning wind

In wintry forests with perpetual rain.

Because of this—because of sisters left

With desperate purpose and dishevelled hair,

And broken breath, and sweetness quenched in tears—

Because of swifter silver for the head,

And furrows for the face—because of these

That should have come with age, that come with pain—

O Master! Father! sitting where our eyes

Are tired of looking, say for once are we—

Are we to set our lips with weary smiles

Before the bitterness of Life and Death,

And call it honey, while we bear away

A taste like wormwood?

Turn thyself, and sing—

Sing, Son of Sorrow! Is there any gain

For breaking of the loins, for melting eyes,

And knees as weak as water?—any peace,

Or hope for casual breath and labouring lips,

For clapping of the palms, and sharper sighs

Than frost; or any light to come for those

Who stand and mumble in the alien streets

With heads as grey as Winter?—any balm

For pleading women, and the love that knows

Of nothing left to love?