I see the ghastly, headlong rush, And picture how the fall would crush My helpless body on the ground.

With haggard eyes I turn around, And contemplate the rocking tail,-- My drawn and sweating cheeks are pale.

Fear's clammy hands clutch at my heart!

I try, with unavailing art, To summon thoughts of peaceful hours Spent in some sunny field of flowers When my half-opened eyes would look On some old dream-inspiring book, And not on this accursed wheel, And on this box of wood and steel In which at pitch-and-toss with Death, I play, and wonder if each breath I tensely draw, will be my last.

The happy thoughts are swiftly past-- My frightened brain forbids them stay.

Dear London seems so far away, And far away my well-loved friends!

Each second my existence ends In my disordered mind, whose pace I cannot check--its cog-wheels race, Like some ungoverned, whirring clock, When, frenziedly, it runs amok.

I have resolved that I will climb A certain height--how slow seems time As on its sluggish pivot creeps The laggard finger-point, which keeps The truthful record. O, how slow Towards the clouds I seem to go!

And then ambition gains its mark at last!

The little finger o'er the point has pa.s.sed!

I can descend again. With conscience clear And end this battle with persistent fear!

The engine's clamour dies--there is no sound Save whistling wires--as towards the ground I gently float. My agony is gone.

What peace is mine as I go gliding on!

Calm after storm--contentment after pain-- Soft sleep to some tempestuous, burning brain-- The soothing harbour after foamy seas-- The gentle feeling of a perfect ease-- All, all are mine--though yet by gusts distressed!

Near is the ground, and with the ground comes rest.

Above the trees I glide--above the gra.s.s, Above the snow-besprinkled earth I pa.s.s.

I touch the ground, run swift along, and stop-- Above the wheel my tired shoulders drop.

I leave my seat, and slowly move away ...

Cold is the wind: the clouds are grey, I only wish my room to gain, And in some book forget my pain, And lose myself in fancied dreams Across t.i.tania's golden streams.

_France, 1917._

_Dreams of Autumn_

When through the heat of some long afternoon In blazing August, on the gra.s.s I lie, And watch the white clouds move across the sky, On whose azure is faintly etched the moon, That, when the evening deepens, will be soon The brightest figure of those hosts on high, My heart is discontented, and I sigh, For Autumn and its vapours; till I swoon

Upon the vision of October days In dreaming London, when each mighty tree Sheds daily more brown showers through the haze, Which lends each street Romance and Mystery-- When pallid silver Sunshine only gleams On that grey Lovers' City of Sweet Dreams.

_Isle of Grain, 1916._

_To Carlton Berry_

KILLED IN AN AEROPLANE ACCIDENT, JULY, 1916

It was Thy will, O G.o.d. And so he died!

For seventeen sweet years he was a child Upon whose grace Thy loving-kindness smiled, For he was clean, and full of youthful pride; And, when his years drew on, then Thou denied That he by man's estate should be defiled, And so Thou call'st him to Thy presence mild To be with Thee for ever, by Thy side.

Nor is he dead! He lives in three great spheres.

His soul is with Thee in Thy home above: His influence,--with friends of former years: His memory with those he used to love.

He is an emblem of that Trinity With whom he lives in happy ecstasy.

_Isle of Grain, 1916._

_London in May_

Two long, full years have pa.s.sed since I have smelt Sweet London in this happy month of May!

Last year relentless War bore me away To Imbros Isle, where six sad months I dwelt Beneath a burning sun--nor ever felt One breath of gentle Spring blow o'er the bay Between whose sun-dried hills so long I lay A restless captive. Now has Fortune dealt

More kindly with me: once again I know The drowsy languor of the afternoons: The soft white clouds: the may-tree's whiter snow: The star-bound evenings, and the ivory moons.

My heart, dear G.o.d! leaps up till it is pain With thanks to Thee that I am here again.

_London._

_A Fallen Leaf_

When Death has crossed my name from out the roll Of dreaming children serving in this War; And with these earthly eyes I gaze no more Upon sweet England's grace--perhaps my soul Will visit streets down which I used to stroll At sunset-charmed dusks, when London's roar Like ebbing surf on some Atlantic sh.o.r.e Would trance the ear. Then may I hear no toll

Of heavy bells to burden all the air With tuneless grief: for happy will I be!-- What place on earth could ever be more fair Than G.o.d's own presence?--Mourn not then for me, Nor write, I pray, "_He gave_"--upon my clod-- "_His life to England_," but "_his soul to G.o.d_."

_Isle of Sheppey, 1917._

_The Star_

I stood, one azure dusk, in old Auxerre Before the grey Cathedral's towering height, And in the Eastern darkness, very fair I saw a little star that twinkled bright; How small it looked beside the mighty pile, Whose stone was rosy with the Western glow-- A little star--I pondered for a while, And then the solemn truth began to know.

That tiny star was some enormous sphere, The great cathedral was an atomy-- So often when grey trouble looms so near That G.o.d shines in our minds but distantly,-- If we but thought, our grief would seem so small That we would see that G.o.d's great love was all.

_France, 1917._

_Islington_

Here slow decay with creeping finger peels The yellow plaster from the grimy walls, Like leprous lichen, day by day which falls, And, day by day, more rotting stone reveals!

Here are old mournful squares through which there steals No cheerful music, or the heedless calls Of laughing children; and the smoke, which crawls Across the sky, the heavy silence seals!

Lean, blackened trees stretch up their withered boughs Behind the rusty railings, prison-bound, In vain they seek the summer sunlight's gold In which their long-dead fathers used to drowse: For pallid terraces lie far around, In gloomy sadness ever growing old.