Many Voices

TO HER: IN TIME OF WAR

 
Once I made for you songs,
Rondels, triolets, sonnets;
Verse that my love deemed due,
Verse that your love found fair.
Now the wide wings of war
Hang, like a hawk’s, over England,
Shadowing meadows and groves;
And the birds and the lovers are mute.
 
 
Yet there’s a thing to say
Before I go into battle,
Not now a poet’s word
But a man’s word to his mate:
Dear, if I come back never,
Be it your pride that we gave
The hope of our hearts, each other,
For the sake of the Hope of the World.
 

1915.

THE FIELDS OF FLANDERS

 
Last year the fields were all glad and gay
With silver daisies and silver may;
There were kingcups gold by the river’s edge
And primrose stars under every hedge.
 
 
This year the fields are trampled and brown,
The hedges are broken and beaten down,
And where the primroses used to grow
Are little black crosses set in a row.
 
 
And the flower of hopes, and the flowers of dreams,
The noble, fruitful, beautiful schemes,
The tree of life with its fruit and bud,
Are trampled down in the mud and the blood.
 
 
The changing seasons will bring again
The magic of Spring to our wood and plain:
Though the Spring be so green as never was seen
The crosses will still be black in the green.
 
 
The God of battles shall judge the foe
Who trampled our country and laid her low . . .
God! hold our hands on the reckoning day,
Lest all we owe them we should repay.
 

1915.

SPRING IN WAR-TIME

 
Now the sprinkled blackthorn snow
   Lies along the lovers’ lane
Where last year we used to go—
   Where we shall not go again.
 
 
In the hedge the buds are new,
   By our wood the violets peer—
Just like last year’s violets, too,
   But they have no scent this year.
 
 
Every bird has heart to sing
   Of its nest, warmed by its breast;
We had heart to sing last spring,
   But we never built our nest.
 
 
Presently red roses blown
   Will make all the garden gay . . .
Not yet have the daisies grown
   On your clay.
 

1916.

THE MOTHER’S PRAYER

 
This was my little son
   Who leapt and laughed on my knee:
Body we made with love,
   Soul made with love by Thee.
This was the mystery
   In which I worshipped Thy grace;
This was the sign to me—
   The unveiling of Thy face . . .
This, that lies under Thy skies
   Naked as on that day
   When the floor of heaven gave way
   And the glory of God shone through,
   When the world was made new
And Thy word was made flesh for me . . .
   He lies there, bare to Thy skies,
         O Lord God, see!
 
 
Body that was in mine
   A secret, sacred spell,
Little hands I have kissed
   Trampled by beasts in Hell . . .
Growing beauty and grace . . .
   Oh, head that lay on my bosom . . .
Broken, battered, shattered . . .
   Body that grew like a blossom!
All that was promised me
   On my life’s royal day.
Every promise broken—
   Only a ghost, and clay!
 
 
O God, I kneel at Thy feet;
   I lay my hands in Thine:
Thou gavest Thy Son for the world,
   And shall I not give mine?
Only—O God, have pity!
   All my defences are down:
God, I accept the Cross,
   Let him have the Crown!
 
 
By all that my love has borne,
   By all that all mothers bear,
By the infinite patient anguish,
   By the never-ceasing prayer,
By the thoughts that cut like a living knife,
   By the tears that are never dry,
Take what he died to win You—
   God, take Your victory!
 
 
We have watched on till the light burned low,
   And watched the dawn awake;
We have lived hardly and hardly fared
   For our sons’ sake.
All that was good in Thy earth,
   All that taught us of Heaven,
All that we had in the world
   We have given.
We pray with empty hands
   And hearts that are stiff with pain.
O God!  O God!  O God!
   Let the sacrifice not be vain.
This is his blood, Lord, see!
His blood that was shed for Thee;
Thy banner is dyed in that red tide
Lord, take Thy victory!
 
 
God! give Thine angels power
   To fight as he fought,
To scatter the hosts of evil,
   To bring their boastings to naught—
Gabriel with trumpet of battle . . .
   Michael, who wields Thy sword . . .
Breathe Thou Thy spirit upon them,
   Put forth Thy strength, O Lord.
See, Lord, this is his body,
   Broken for Thee, for Thee . . .
My son, my little son,
   Who leapt and laughed on my knee.
 

“INASMUCH AS YE DID IT NOT . . . ”

 
If Jesus came to London,
   Came to London to-day,
He would not go to the West End,
   He would come down our way;
He’d talk with the children dancing
   To the organ out in the street,
And say he was their big Brother,
   And give them something to eat.
 
 
He wouldn’t go to the mansions
   Where the charitable live;
He’d come to the tenement houses
   Where we ain’t got nothing to give.
He’d come so kind and so homely,
   And treat us to beer and bread,
And tell us how we ought to behave;
   And we’d try to mind what He said.
 
 
In the warm bright West End churches
   They sing and preach and pray,
They call us “Beloved brethren,”
   But they do not act that way.
And when He came to the church door
   He’d call out loud and free,
“You stop that preaching and praying
   And show what you’ve done for Me.”
 
 
Then they’d say, “O Lord, we have given
   To the poor both blankets and tracts,
And we’ve tried to make them sober,
   And we’ve tried to teach them facts.
But they will sneak round to the drink-shop,
   And pawn the blankets for beer,
And we find them very ungrateful,
   But still we persevere.”
 
 
Then He would say, “I told you
   The time I was here before,
That you were all of you brothers,
   All you that I suffered for.
I won’t go into your churches,
   I’ll stop in the sun outside.
You bring out the men your brothers,
   The men for whom I died!”
 
 
Out of our beastly lodgings,
   From arches and doorways about,
They’d have to do as He told them,
   They’d have to call us out.
Millions and millions and millions,
   Thick and crawling like flies,
We should creep out to the sunshine
   And not be afraid of His eyes.
 
 
He’d see what God’s image looks like
   When men have dealt with the same,
Wrinkled with work that is never done,
   Swollen and dirty with shame.
He’d see on the children’s forehead
   The branded gutter-sign
That marks the girls to be harlots,
   That dooms the boys to be swine.
 
 
Then He’d say, “What’s the good of churches
   When these have nowhere to sleep?
And how can I hear you praying
   When they are cursing so deep?
I gave My Blood and My Body
   That they might have bread and wine,
And you have taken your share and theirs
   Of these good gifts of mine!”
 
 
Then some of the rich would be sorry,
   And all would be very scared,
And they’d say, “But we never knew, Lord!”
   And He’d say, “You never cared!”
And some would be sick and shameful
   Because they’d know that they knew,
And the best would say, “We were wrong, Lord.
   Now tell us what to do!”
 
 
I think He’d be sitting, likely,
   For someone ’ud bring Him a chair,
With a common kid cuddled up on His knee
   And the common sun on His hair;
And they’d be standing before Him,
   And He’d say, “You know that you knew.
Why haven’t you worked for your brothers
   The same as I worked for you?
 
 
“For since you’re all of you brothers
   It’s clear as God’s blessed sun
That each must work for the others,
   Not thousands work for one.
And the ones that have lived bone-idle
   If they want Me to hear them pray,
Let them go and work for their livings
   The only honest way!
 
 
“I’ve got nothing new to tell you,
   You know what I always said—
But you’ve built their bones into churches
   And stolen their wine and bread;
You with My Name on your foreheads,
   Liar, and traitor, and knave,
You have lived by the death of your brothers,
   These whom I died to save!”
 
 
I wish He would come and say it;
   Perhaps they’d believe it then,
And work like men for their livings
   And let us work like men.
Brothers?  They don’t believe it,
   The lie on their lips is red.
They’ll never believe till He comes again,
   Or till we rise from the dead!