Poems.

by Elinor Jenkins.

_H. S. T._

_Requiescat_

We were bereft ere we were well aware Of all our precious fears, and had instead A hopeless safety, a secure despair.

We know that fate dealt kindly with our dead, Tenderer to that fair face we held so dear Than unto many another's best beloved.

Whate'er befall, we know him far removed From all the weary labours of last year, And even in paying this most bitter price We know the cause worthy the sacrifice.

Now he is safe from any further ill, Nor toils in peril while at ease we sit, Yet bides our loss in thinking of him still,-- Of sombre eyes, by sudden laughter lit, Darkened till all the eternal stars shall wane; And lost the incommunicable lore Of cunning fingers ne'er to limn again And restless hands at rest for ever more.

_The Dead Comrade_

"Courage, invention, mirth we ill can spare Lie lost with him, the greatest loss of all, We grudge to well-won rest His swiftness to devise and dare That never failed the call."

Thus they all spoke together of the dead Who was their comrade many a dark hour through, As one whose work was ended quite, But he that held him dearest said Nothing, for well he knew

His friend forsook them not in dying.

--Often above the din he seemed to hear His well known voice beloved, Often in mud and darkness lying, Felt he was working near,

By star-sh.e.l.l light oft with that commonplace Familiar kindness knowing not surprise Just as in other nights now lost, Suddenly glimpsed his face, Unchanged the same sleep-burdened eyes,

Whimsical brows and laughter-lifted lip; And turned again to labours lighter grown, Glad of that unforgetful soul's Imperishable fellowship That left him not to serve alone.

_The Choice_

Too well they saw the road where they must tread Was shrouded in a misty winding sheet, Among whose strangling coils their souls might meet Death, and delaying not to go, they said Farewell to hope, to dear tasks left undone, To well-loved faces and to length of days.-- So came they to the parting of the ways, A year agone, and saw no way but one.

Others, and they were many, watched them go But turned not from the pleasant path of ease, With hedges full of flowers, and fields of sheep.

Their hearts waxed gross, battening on braver woe And their eyes heavy.--G.o.d, for such as these No trump avails but Thine to break their sleep!

_The House by the Highway_

All night, from the quiet street Comes the sound, without pause or break Of the marching legions' feet To listeners lying awake.

Their faces may none descry; Night folds them close like a pall; But the feet of them pa.s.sing by Tramp on the hearts of all.

What comforting makes them strong?

What trust and what fears have they That march without music or song To death at the end of the way?

What faith in our victory?

What hopes that beguile and bless?

What heaven-sent hilarity?

What mirth and what weariness?

What valour from vanished years In the heart of youth confined?

What wellsprings of unshed tears For the loves they leave behind?

No sleep, my soul to befriend; No voice, neither answering light!

But darkness that knows no end And feet going by in the night.

_Night in the Suburbs, August, 1914_

The misty night broods o'er this peopled place, Chimneys and trees stand black against the sky, One goes belated by with echoing pace And careless whistle, shrilling loud and high.

And ere his steps into the stillness merge Some labouring giant of our later day Pa.s.ses with hollow roar of distant surge And clouds of steam as white as ocean spray.

In turn the lighted windows, twinkling fair, Darken, till all these earthborn stars are down; Stained dusky red by the great city's glare The waning moon hangs low o'er London Town.

E'en now that moon in her own silver guise Looks down on some stretched on a stricken plain, Yet she shows red unto their blood-dimmed eyes That never shall behold the sun again.

We, weary of the idle watch we keep, Turn from the window to our sure repose And pa.s.s into the pleasant realms of sleep, Or snug and drowsy muse upon their woes.

And whether we that sleep or they that wake,-- We that have laboured light and slumber well Or they that bled and battled for our sake-- Have the best portion scarce seems hard to tell.

Soon shall the sun behold them, where they lie, Yet his fierce rays may never warm them more; No further need have they to strive or cry, They have found rest that laboured long and sore;

While we take up again in street and mart The burden and the business of the day: And which of these two is the better part G.o.d only knows, whose face is turned away.

_Autumn Wind_

A month ago they marched to fight Away 'twixt the woodland and the sown, I walked that lonely road to-night And yet I could not feel alone.

The voice of the wind called shrill and high Like a bugle band of ghosts, And the restless leaves that shuffled by Seemed the tread of the phantom hosts.

Mayhap when the shadows gather round And the low skies lower with rain, The dead that rot upon outland ground March down the road again.