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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2767e81 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63155 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63155) diff --git a/old/63155-8.txt b/old/63155-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c7abeb9..0000000 --- a/old/63155-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1082 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The White Comrade and Other Poems, by Katherine Hale - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The White Comrade and Other Poems - -Author: Katherine Hale - -Release Date: September 8, 2020 [EBook #63155] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE COMRADE AND OTHER POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines - - - - - - - - - THE WHITE COMRADE - - AND OTHER POEMS - - - BY KATHERINE HALE - - _Author of "Grey Knitting"_ - - - - _Cover Design by_ - DOROTHY STEVENS - - - - MCCLELLAND, GOODCHILD & STEWART - PUBLISHERS : : : : TORONTO - - - - - COPYRIGHT CANADA, 1916 - MCCLELLAND, GOODCHILD & STEWART, LIMITED - TORONTO - - - - PRINTED IN CANADA - - - - - Contents - - The White Comrade - The Awakening - The Hearts of Mothers - Soul of the Earth - I used to Wear a Gown of Green - The Departure - - - - - THE WHITE COMRADE - - _A Canadian soldier, wounded at Ypres, speaks_ - - - So this green land is England! Her we saw - Radiant and smiling in our early dreams, - A land by love dream-haunted. Now we come - With stranger vision than our youth could give - To the great shelter of her mighty arms. - We come from battles bitter and long fought - To see the stars shining on village streets - And watch a country in midsummer calm-- - A soft land, lying August-clad but chill, - Dull to Canadian eyes that know the sun - As it stalks red across an azure sky. - And as we limp about and smoke, play cards, - And wait impatient to be off again, - Sometimes we two, amid the comrades here,-- - Two only of the three who started out, - For, in the wood at Julien, Edward fell-- - Sometimes we two go silent, then look up - To see if we can find in others' eyes - A knowledge that has grown with us from out - The fields of France, when in those awful nights, - _Some of us heard a rumor, saw a Form._ - - * * * * * - - Then we look back unto that strange new hour - When time was suddenly transformed for us - Within a sleepy town near old Quebec. - We, sunburned, and already turning home - From a long forest tramp of two good weeks, - We who were friends together, town and school - And lives in common, knitting us akin. - We had been tramping through the distant hills - Far out of reach of papers and of news - And when we stopped for letters, it was there - We met the first surprising note of war: - A little bill-board like a clarion voice - Shouted to us on that midsummer day, - "Germany says!" And on and on and on - The fateful message ran. We turned and stared - Into each other's eyes in blank amaze. - "Germany says!" In two short weeks of time - Hidden by forests as we three had been - Could all the world be humbled so that news - Of Germany, and what she says or does - Or does not say or do, could raise the storm - Whose thunders shook us even from afar. - "Belgium is entered!" "England is prepared!" - "Canada mobilizing!" Oh, ye gods, - What things to read upon a little board - Tacked up above the place where letters lie! - - Later, we asked for ours, and they were full - Of a new wonder and a great surprise. - My little sister wrote, "I never dreamed - That things could happen in this prosy town; - But everyone is stirring and awake. - Red Cross is starting, and each girl I know - Has sent for wool. For we must learn to knit." - Then Edward broke his printed envelope: - "Insurance premiums for the risk in war." - The air went chill as at a sudden blast. - Nigel put his away. Nor opened it. - His letters must be read quite out of sight. - To-day I think he did not want to read. - To-morrow he would see her. And the word - Upon all lips would come into their eyes. - We talked with village gossips all day long, - We heard their suppositions, hopes and fears, - We tried to puzzle out those buried weeks, - When, out of sight and sound, such things had come - Upon the world we knew, that it no more - Was our same world. And we, in forest ways - Had been quite lost while it was changing. Strange - Past anything that we had dreamed before! - - We climbed the hill behind the little town - And as we sat the gathering darkness fell, - The lights sprang up within the window panes - And some young boy had found a penny flute - Which through the gloaming sounded thin and clear - Like an emphatic fairy note, that called - To all the spirits that could hear its voice - To come and follow, follow where it led. - All here and there that shrill young flute cried "Come." - And sometimes laughter followed in its train. - We knew that children catching the refrain - Would follow, follow on all luring led - By that young voice through lands of summer night. - - In the first bird note of St. Julien - I heard that flute again from hills of home, - When we three sat on that strange August night - And tried to talk and felt our own words fail, - But stared through violet shadows and knew then - That worlds might fall away and new ones dawn, - But never in this world more vital hours - Could come for Canada, or for ourselves - Than these midsummer days when all the land - Must ask a vital question--and reply. - - Then we became new soldiers in a cause - That is as old as Christ, the crucified. - As we took drill out in the open air, - Drank the long draughts of ozone keen and bright, - Felt our whole bodies grow as if new-born, - Our minds kept pace and fed on wider thoughts. - Each man I think who was in truth a man, - Felt the old life slip from him in those days - And a new purpose take the place of self. - - And so we left Valcartier, and stole out - Across the ocean--that long line of ships, - "The New Armada," trailing slowly out - Across that bridge of water to the land - Where life and death indeed had met as one. - Where life and death so closely were entwined - You could not tell where one began or ceased. - We did not talk of these things at the time - But each man, as he smoked and shuffled cards, - Or drilled his squad upon the sunny deck, - Each man was conscious through that great good time - That into life a nobler friend had come - To be denied or loved as each one chose. - A strong inevitable friend, so near - That we should touch him in the passing soon: - That young-old friend that life has long named Death. - - At Salisbury we lived and moved in mud. - Talked mud, felt mud, and slept in it knee-deep. - England we felt not. Only lived the day, - And fell at night to leaden dreams of home. - - Then France, and sudden springtime bourgeoning. - Oh, bourgeoning indeed with ardent hopes! - I cannot tell you what that change was like: - I wish that words were colours, or were notes, - Then I would go past red to violet tones - To give you back that vibrancy of air, - That selfless, sacrificing, vital mood, - That almost jocund feeling of rebound - Towards the fight for liberty and right - That animated France those first spring days. - The year was young, and in the lovely land - New life was waking ardent, eager-eyed. - The very air called welcome, and we left - Homesickness far behind. We summoned mirth - And whistled down those roads all poplar lined. - We laughed at mud that April winds would dry, - And in that grey square Market Place at ... - Where we marched past the staff and gave salute - There was baptized a new affinity, - Young Canada with France and England blent. - I tell you hearts beat faster, hopes rode high, - The air was lighter, keener, there was joy, - Great joy in our swift entrance to the fight - That closed about us fast those April days. - I think that never in its hottest hour - Was love so lovely or life so supreme - As in the sudden days of leaf and bud, - Of bird song, and that quickening of the heart - That heralds Great Adventure to the soul. - There was the night we marched on Neuve Chapelle: - Thousands of shadows in a shadow host. - Beyond lay German legions, and that zone - Invisible, illusive, moving on - That men have called "The Front." - Fancy your heart - Moving with other shadows all that night, - Knowing yourself not flesh at all, but one-- - One pulse-beat in the world's great heart of flame. - Perhaps a whistling youth on days of sun, - One among shadows on this night of nights, - Moving with other shadows all night long. - One leaving little loves far, far behind, - One pressing on with thousands of his kind - To answer that great question life had asked - Each one upon his hilltop back at home. - - We three marched near together through old France, - Together trenched those days at Neuve Chapelle, - And saw the heavens part and fires descend, - And felt the roar of such a cannonade - As all the world of battles had not known. - The French lay close beside us, and near them - The lithe, brown men from India--heroes they. - We felt like children just discarding toys - In face of those whose souls had long known war, - Whose spirits flashed like rapiers in the face - Of the Great Danger. They were men indeed - Whom it was good to look upon and know, - And in those nights they learned of us to say, - When German flares lit up the evening skies, - "Behold the Northern Lights!" St. Julien came, - And that wild night in which old Edward fell. - Those hours are hard to speak about at all. - They went by like a flash in which we moved - As one man altogether, and the hours - Flared up to heaven like a burning torch. - - Nigel and I, one night just after Ypres, - Were struggling with our ancient college-French - Talking, or stumbling into talk, with one - Called René Paule, from an adjacent trench, - Who had been wounded in an early fight. - And he with eloquence and poetry - Like all his vivid race, made haste to tell - Of a strange rumor we had heard before, - How in the depths of plain unvarnished hell - Quivering with anguish so he could not move - And waiting for the stretcher-bearers' call, - He suddenly felt healing, cool and sweet, - As you might feel a fan on a hot day - Swayed by an unseen hand. And softly then - Closing his eyes on blessed, stealing sleep - He felt a touch, and looking up beheld - The kindest, sweetest eyes in all the world. - It was a Comrade in the khaki brown, - His face was tired, but the eyes were keen - And tender as a dewy flower at dawn. - And René, feeling once again the pain, - Grasped the hand tight, and looked into the eyes - For succor, and they held him there, serene, - And slowly, slowly conquered the strong pain. - And René saw the khaki melt away - Until the Comrade seemed all wrapt in white - As though sheer light had woven a robe for him, - And his strong eyes gleamed like an azure flame, - And he held René through the bitter night, - Until the stretcher-bearers came at dawn. - "So the White Comrade often comes, my friends," - He said to us, and smiling, mused awhile. - "These fields are not so difficult in death; - Whether we live or die it all seems one. - He has come back to us because we die - As He did, long ago, for love of man." - - Often we talked of Edward, and he seemed - To march beside us down the bright French roads. - We moved into the firing line once more. - So close the German lines, there only lay - An orchard, in the loveliness of May, - Between us and the armies of the Huns. - - Sometimes I think that Festubert will hold - Rank equal with St. Julien, for those - Who lived through its abandonment of fire. - It was the Gunners' day. We had to shell - Those trenches that were fortresses indeed, - And pouring hell's own native thunder out. - The orchard lay between us, and it seemed - We simply had to take that place by storm. - They tried to ditch us with their hedge of wire; - We plunged and made for gaps, and all the while - They rained on us artillery fire, until - Ear drums were stilled and nerves quite ceased to work; - Machine gun, shrapnel, rifle-fire as one - Kept up the deadly dance of death. And we - Dashed at them, through that dance, till hand to hand - We cleared our orchard, or they say we did. - It was the Gunners' Day. I know that much. - Some of the fun I missed, for at the height, - Just when is lost completely every thought - Of one's own entity, or reason why - It is not, after all, good sport to die - In such a whirlwind of emotion,--then, - Out of a little puff of air it came, - The one shot meant for me. - I fell inert - And sank into unconsciousness, till one - Dragging me off made torture of my wound, - Then left me under some small spreading shrubs. - Surely one needed shelter from the sun - And hottest air that ever poured on pain. - I longed for water, looked for human aid, - But no one came. Only the roar of guns - And a far distant sound that meant the play - Of men in action, that and drilling pain - Met in a hideous duet of war. - I called to Nigel with my aching mind - And knew it was in vain. Again I called - To youth, and to some Force in other worlds - That might put me to death or ease my pain. - A thousand swords were running through my brain, - The blood thumped like an engine in my head. - If I should faint the Comrade White might come! - - Only in dreams, in dying dreams of pain - He comes, I thought. Or else it is quite vain - To trust such fairy tales as René told. - Oh, for a glass of water! It was noon - And o'er the grassy plain the sleepy hum - Of insects, moving in a drowsy swoon, - Sang to me through my pain, as if they were - A near vibration of the guns of war. - - "War, war, O hot and hideous and hard, - The ways you lead, the deaths you make one die! - I have died fifty times this noon!" So ran - The anguished brain within me, on and on, - All the long way of quivering mortal woe. - The world was gone. I, swooning, felt it go, - Was at the point of nothingness, when there, - Moving across the grass on hands and knees, - I saw a brown-clad figure crawling slow - As if he were a part of the hot plain, - And wondered if I'd last until he came. - - Never that troop of angels in the air - At Mons showed brighter wings or lovelier light - Than the worn khaki of that Comrade dear. - I felt him bind my wounds with tender touch, - And at his touch the ghosts of pain escaped. - I saw him smile above me, and I swooned - For joy of waking up not all alone. - I begged "Stay with me till they come!" and then - Looked up into his face for the first time - And saw it was old Edward who had died - At Julien. We left him lying there - White in the moonlight as we all rushed on. - We buried him, Edward the loved and brave, - And now I stared through pain and saw his face. - I saw his eyes, shining and lit with love: - The old eyes, staunch and loyal as they were - All through our youth together, and these days - Of the great camaraderie of war. - - "Edward," I murmured, and he only smiled - And waved across the grass right at the guns - Whose thunder sounded fainter in my ears. - "How did you come?" I asked him, as I held - Tight to his hand, that big brown hand of his. - Oh, it was good to die and have him back! - For I had died. That was quite clear to me. - He only said, "The pain will go, old chap!" - Just the same voice, with the accustomed burr - Of his Scotch father sounding through its tones. - And we sat silent in the burning noon. - - Then in the distance two small figures moved, - A third behind them, and I knew the boys - Bearing the stretchers were quite close at hand, - And Edward waved them so they came on fast. - To have him leave me! That were a new death - And something told me that he could not stay. - - "I long to die, just now, before they come!" - This I told Edward with what strength I had. - And he laughed softly, and I held his hand, - Looked at him long, until the blinding noon - Came to bend down between us, and his face, - Tender and brown and kindly, seemed enwrapt - In a white light, mysterious and strong, - Turning the khaki silver. And the hand - Holding me fast was part of the great light. - - I closed my eyes. And now the boys had come, - Lifted me up, taken me quite away - To a camp hospital where Nigel lay - Wounded as I was, out of all vain hope - Of further fighting for a long half year. - - The stretcher-bearers story? It was this: - That a strange glow had rested on the shrubs - 'Neath which I lay--just a broad patch of light - To show there was a human being there - In need of human aid. And so they came. - "You were half gone, my friend," they said to me, - "It was a wonder that we saw you there! - Strange that the sun so centred on that spot!" - And Nigel, when I told him, said "I think - You were mistaken, but I dare not say - What is revealed to any man these days. - You know the angels that appeared at Mons! - Many have seen bright angels on the field. - I have not seen, but then my eyes are dim, - My vision turns back home so constantly. - If I were dying I should think of her, - She is my Christ, my angel and my hope. - Before each battle I make prayers to her, - And so the earthly love is still my goal. - There are two Comrades, Love and Loneliness, - Perhaps Christ enters when we touch the last. - Loneliness waiteth long, until we give - The last glad hold we have on life, and I-- - I have not given yet my hold on life." - - * * * * * - - And now in this green England that we saw - Radiant and smiling in our early dreams, - We two are marking time, looking at hills - And these small village streets, and playing cards - And telling yarns, and idling in the sun. - And as we limp about and wait, sing songs, - Exchange the tales of trench and hot assault - And hear again the whistling shrapnel call, - Muse in the firelight, laugh at old alarms, - And wait impatient to be off again, - Sometimes we two, amid the comrades here, - Sometimes we two go silent. Then look up - To see if we can find in others' eyes - A knowledge that has grown with us from out - The fields of France, when in those awful nights - _Some of us heard a rumor, saw a Form._ - - * * * * * - - And so, my friends, this word I bring to you - Hot from the hell of conflict whence I come, - Where life and death, binding men's spirits close, - Have sealed a certain knowledge on our souls. - Christ has come back to earth in these great days, - I, but a young Canadian, tell you this. - The stories of our battles,--Neuve Chapelle, - St. Julien, Festubert, and all the rest-- - They have been told already scores of times, - Sung, written, painted, burned in words of flame. - My words are homely as a tallow dip, - As crude as that, but just as stoutly true. - Christ has come back to earth in these great days, - He has come back, as in the centuries past - He suddenly appeared upon the streets - Of old Judean towns. Let people talk - Of ancient creeds and dogmas as they will, - That helps not, hinders not, the vital truth - That one young man in his most ardent youth - So loved life, felt life, understood its laws, - So took pain to his heart, so took great love, - And knew that pain and love are always one, - And knew that death can be lived through to life, - Till he commanded death, and death obeyed. - - So comes the Comrade White, down silent pain. - He comes to woods and battlefields to-day, - (Sometimes I think he loves the woods the best) - And finds free souls flung skyward, glad to go. - Among the lonely and the pain-racked ones - He comes--not death at all, but radiant life, - Comes in the eyes of comrades, lives in hearts - That give all, taking nothing in return. - He is a rumor and a far white light, - He is the singing bird, the children's flute - That called us wooing forth to give our all. - The floating glad things of the buoyant air, - Young earth's warm children, music and delight, - Live in His eyes: those deathless azure eyes, - That smile upon the moment we thought hard, - And turn our sacrifice to kindling light. - _They pass through radiant gates on whom He smiles._ - - - - - THE AWAKENING - - How like a giant stretching in the sun, - We have slept through the ages; even we - Whom the gods moulded for a people free, - And made tremendous for the race not run. - - See we have slept a magic cycle round, - And in the dream we have imagined much; - Felt the soft wings of years we did not touch, - Dallied with somnolence that deadens sound. - - With untried strength what we have done is done. - The wandering, drowsy brain has vaguely stirred, - As though from out infinitude it heard - A great voice speaking from behind the sun. - - Closer and clear the calling, strangely loud, - And the great country, rousing from long sleep - Murmurs to its own soul, as deep to deep - Beckons a day's new dawn, so sure and proud. - - These were the visions of a passing night, - Visions now caught in bugle notes of flame, - _And lo, through storms of war we hear our name - Called by an angel, terrible and bright._ - - - - - THE HEARTS OF MOTHERS - - The hearts of mothers are hid things - In these the days of woe, - And troops of strange thoughts move therein - Silently to and fro. - - They are not thoughts of yester-year, - Or thoughts of you and me - And that which we have done, or do, - By air, or land, or sea. - - But these are thoughts steel-bright with pain, - And death-thoughts bare and stark, - And shining thoughts of armaments - That glitter through the dark. - - They move, old passions and revolts, - Fresh-called, yet stiff with scars, - To music crimsoned with the clash - Of endless ancient wars. - - And those who summon memories - From pathways of the sun, - When death spoke life most solemnly - Ere new life was begun, - - They dream of a strange blooming - That dawns in greater birth: - The frail, bright flower of selflessness - Brought back again to earth. - - They feel, the Givers of all Life, - Great need to give again - The utmost dower of womanhood, - All mystery--all pain. - - - - - SOUL OF THE EARTH - - I saw a tired soldier vainly searching - For room to bury deeply the new dead. - "The old dead they are there, forever perching - About the space we need," he grimly said. - "The old dead, slaughtered, just beneath the sod - Of Earth that once was well-beloved of God." - - I heard a woman desperate in her wooing - Of empty space and echoing aisles of air, - Calling upon the gods of her undoing - To stem the fearful flood of her despair. - "Somewhere in France he lies so deep," she said. - "That Earth must make me answer for my dead." - - And all the while a wondrous bloom was springing - Above the fields where lie these broken boys, - Thousands of souls like butterflies upwinging - In troop on radiant troop of shining joys. - Host upon host they seek eternal breath - Above the little mounds of lonely death. - - "Thus," saith the Earth, "my poppies pass in splendor, - Flame of young hearts, for still my world is young, - And in great Ages, wise because more tender, - The passion of their passing shall be sung. - Ask of these Ages! For the soul of me - Knows endless blooming--vivid, changing, free." - - - - - I USED TO WEAR A GOWN OF GREEN - - I used to wear a gown of green - And sing a song to May, - When apple blossoms starred the stream - And Spring came up the way. - - I used to run along with Love - By lanes the world forgets, - To find in an enchanted wood - The first frail violets. - - And ever 'mid the fairy blooms - And murmur of the stream, - We used to hear the pipes of Pan - Call softly through our dream. - - But now, in outcry vast, that tune - Fades like some little star - Lost in an anguished judgment day - And scarlet flames of war. - - What can it mean that Spring returns - And purple violets bloom, - Save that some gypsy flower may stray - Beside his nameless tomb! - - To pagan Earth her gown of green, - Her elfin song to May-- - _With all my soul I must go on - Into the scarlet day._ - - - - - THE DEPARTURE - -"We watched the boys march singing through the streets of Kingston. -We cheered to them and waved to them as the train pulled out." -CONINGSBY DAWSON, in "_The Passing of the 34th._" - - - How you passed out singing on that winter day! - All the air was ringing with your laughter gay; - With the song and banter that made light the way. - - There were few sighs wasted on dividing years, - There was mirth and music, kisses, hopes and fears, - Cigarettes and banners, chocolates, socks and tears. - - Swifter than your passing did the fancy run, - Soldiers, horses, bayonets--how you all seemed one, - Flashing through the snowflakes and the veiled sun; - - Every woman cheered you, some few women wept, - Graybeards longed to join you, peaceful babies slept; - But the land that bore you her own counsel kept. - - Only, through the snowflakes sped a rift of light, - Keen as pointed sword-blade and intensely bright-- - Like the Lord's hand resting on the ranks of right. - - And our hearts would send you, as a song of spring, - Unforgotten echoes of the songs you sing, - And the hope and courage that the new days bring. - - Here's our love and greeting from the old home town; - Here's to speedy meeting, and to your renown; - Here's to every gallant heart in the khaki brown! - - - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The White Comrade and Other Poems, by -Katherine Hale - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE COMRADE AND OTHER POEMS *** - -***** This file should be named 63155-8.txt or 63155-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/1/5/63155/ - -Produced by Al Haines -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The White Comrade and Other Poems - -Author: Katherine Hale - -Release Date: September 8, 2020 [EBook #63155] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE COMRADE AND OTHER POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines - - - - - -</pre> - - -<h1> -<br /><br /> - THE WHITE COMRADE<br /> -<br /> - AND OTHER POEMS<br /> -</h1> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - BY KATHERINE HALE<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t3"> - <i>Author of "Grey Knitting"</i><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - <i>Cover Design by</i><br /> - DOROTHY STEVENS<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - MCCLELLAND, GOODCHILD & STEWART<br /> - PUBLISHERS : : : : TORONTO<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t4"> - COPYRIGHT CANADA, 1916<br /> - MCCLELLAND, GOODCHILD & STEWART, LIMITED<br /> - TORONTO<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t4"> - PRINTED IN CANADA<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - Contents<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#comrade">The White Comrade</a><br /> - <a href="#awakening">The Awakening</a><br /> - <a href="#hearts">The Hearts of Mothers</a><br /> - <a href="#soul">Soul of the Earth</a><br /> - <a href="#gown">I used to Wear a Gown of Green</a><br /> - <a href="#departure">The Departure</a><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - - - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="comrade"></a> - THE WHITE COMRADE -</h3> - -<p class="t3"> - <i>A Canadian soldier, wounded at Ypres, speaks</i><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - So this green land is England! Her we saw<br /> - Radiant and smiling in our early dreams,<br /> - A land by love dream-haunted. Now we come<br /> - With stranger vision than our youth could give<br /> - To the great shelter of her mighty arms.<br /> - We come from battles bitter and long fought<br /> - To see the stars shining on village streets<br /> - And watch a country in midsummer calm—<br /> - A soft land, lying August-clad but chill,<br /> - Dull to Canadian eyes that know the sun<br /> - As it stalks red across an azure sky.<br /> - And as we limp about and smoke, play cards,<br /> - And wait impatient to be off again,<br /> - Sometimes we two, amid the comrades here,—<br /> - Two only of the three who started out,<br /> - For, in the wood at Julien, Edward fell—<br /> - Sometimes we two go silent, then look up<br /> - To see if we can find in others' eyes<br /> - A knowledge that has grown with us from out<br /> - The fields of France, when in those awful nights,<br /> - <i>Some of us heard a rumor, saw a Form.</i><br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then we look back unto that strange new hour<br /> - When time was suddenly transformed for us<br /> - Within a sleepy town near old Quebec.<br /> - We, sunburned, and already turning home<br /> - From a long forest tramp of two good weeks,<br /> - We who were friends together, town and school<br /> - And lives in common, knitting us akin.<br /> - We had been tramping through the distant hills<br /> - Far out of reach of papers and of news<br /> - And when we stopped for letters, it was there<br /> - We met the first surprising note of war:<br /> - A little bill-board like a clarion voice<br /> - Shouted to us on that midsummer day,<br /> - "Germany says!" And on and on and on<br /> - The fateful message ran. We turned and stared<br /> - Into each other's eyes in blank amaze.<br /> - "Germany says!" In two short weeks of time<br /> - Hidden by forests as we three had been<br /> - Could all the world be humbled so that news<br /> - Of Germany, and what she says or does<br /> - Or does not say or do, could raise the storm<br /> - Whose thunders shook us even from afar.<br /> - "Belgium is entered!" "England is prepared!"<br /> - "Canada mobilizing!" Oh, ye gods,<br /> - What things to read upon a little board<br /> - Tacked up above the place where letters lie!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Later, we asked for ours, and they were full<br /> - Of a new wonder and a great surprise.<br /> - My little sister wrote, "I never dreamed<br /> - That things could happen in this prosy town;<br /> - But everyone is stirring and awake.<br /> - Red Cross is starting, and each girl I know<br /> - Has sent for wool. For we must learn to knit."<br /> - Then Edward broke his printed envelope:<br /> - "Insurance premiums for the risk in war."<br /> - The air went chill as at a sudden blast.<br /> - Nigel put his away. Nor opened it.<br /> - His letters must be read quite out of sight.<br /> - To-day I think he did not want to read.<br /> - To-morrow he would see her. And the word<br /> - Upon all lips would come into their eyes.<br /> - We talked with village gossips all day long,<br /> - We heard their suppositions, hopes and fears,<br /> - We tried to puzzle out those buried weeks,<br /> - When, out of sight and sound, such things had come<br /> - Upon the world we knew, that it no more<br /> - Was our same world. And we, in forest ways<br /> - Had been quite lost while it was changing. Strange<br /> - Past anything that we had dreamed before!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We climbed the hill behind the little town<br /> - And as we sat the gathering darkness fell,<br /> - The lights sprang up within the window panes<br /> - And some young boy had found a penny flute<br /> - Which through the gloaming sounded thin and clear<br /> - Like an emphatic fairy note, that called<br /> - To all the spirits that could hear its voice<br /> - To come and follow, follow where it led.<br /> - All here and there that shrill young flute cried "Come."<br /> - And sometimes laughter followed in its train.<br /> - We knew that children catching the refrain<br /> - Would follow, follow on all luring led<br /> - By that young voice through lands of summer night.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - In the first bird note of St. Julien<br /> - I heard that flute again from hills of home,<br /> - When we three sat on that strange August night<br /> - And tried to talk and felt our own words fail,<br /> - But stared through violet shadows and knew then<br /> - That worlds might fall away and new ones dawn,<br /> - But never in this world more vital hours<br /> - Could come for Canada, or for ourselves<br /> - Than these midsummer days when all the land<br /> - Must ask a vital question—and reply.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then we became new soldiers in a cause<br /> - That is as old as Christ, the crucified.<br /> - As we took drill out in the open air,<br /> - Drank the long draughts of ozone keen and bright,<br /> - Felt our whole bodies grow as if new-born,<br /> - Our minds kept pace and fed on wider thoughts.<br /> - Each man I think who was in truth a man,<br /> - Felt the old life slip from him in those days<br /> - And a new purpose take the place of self.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And so we left Valcartier, and stole out<br /> - Across the ocean—that long line of ships,<br /> - "The New Armada," trailing slowly out<br /> - Across that bridge of water to the land<br /> - Where life and death indeed had met as one.<br /> - Where life and death so closely were entwined<br /> - You could not tell where one began or ceased.<br /> - We did not talk of these things at the time<br /> - But each man, as he smoked and shuffled cards,<br /> - Or drilled his squad upon the sunny deck,<br /> - Each man was conscious through that great good time<br /> - That into life a nobler friend had come<br /> - To be denied or loved as each one chose.<br /> - A strong inevitable friend, so near<br /> - That we should touch him in the passing soon:<br /> - That young-old friend that life has long named Death.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At Salisbury we lived and moved in mud.<br /> - Talked mud, felt mud, and slept in it knee-deep.<br /> - England we felt not. Only lived the day,<br /> - And fell at night to leaden dreams of home.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then France, and sudden springtime bourgeoning.<br /> - Oh, bourgeoning indeed with ardent hopes!<br /> - I cannot tell you what that change was like:<br /> - I wish that words were colours, or were notes,<br /> - Then I would go past red to violet tones<br /> - To give you back that vibrancy of air,<br /> - That selfless, sacrificing, vital mood,<br /> - That almost jocund feeling of rebound<br /> - Towards the fight for liberty and right<br /> - That animated France those first spring days.<br /> - The year was young, and in the lovely land<br /> - New life was waking ardent, eager-eyed.<br /> - The very air called welcome, and we left<br /> - Homesickness far behind. We summoned mirth<br /> - And whistled down those roads all poplar lined.<br /> - We laughed at mud that April winds would dry,<br /> - And in that grey square Market Place at ...<br /> - Where we marched past the staff and gave salute<br /> - There was baptized a new affinity,<br /> - Young Canada with France and England blent.<br /> - I tell you hearts beat faster, hopes rode high,<br /> - The air was lighter, keener, there was joy,<br /> - Great joy in our swift entrance to the fight<br /> - That closed about us fast those April days.<br /> - I think that never in its hottest hour<br /> - Was love so lovely or life so supreme<br /> - As in the sudden days of leaf and bud,<br /> - Of bird song, and that quickening of the heart<br /> - That heralds Great Adventure to the soul.<br /> - There was the night we marched on Neuve Chapelle:<br /> - Thousands of shadows in a shadow host.<br /> - Beyond lay German legions, and that zone<br /> - Invisible, illusive, moving on<br /> - That men have called "The Front."<br /> - Fancy your heart<br /> - Moving with other shadows all that night,<br /> - Knowing yourself not flesh at all, but one—<br /> - One pulse-beat in the world's great heart of flame.<br /> - Perhaps a whistling youth on days of sun,<br /> - One among shadows on this night of nights,<br /> - Moving with other shadows all night long.<br /> - One leaving little loves far, far behind,<br /> - One pressing on with thousands of his kind<br /> - To answer that great question life had asked<br /> - Each one upon his hilltop back at home.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We three marched near together through old France,<br /> - Together trenched those days at Neuve Chapelle,<br /> - And saw the heavens part and fires descend,<br /> - And felt the roar of such a cannonade<br /> - As all the world of battles had not known.<br /> - The French lay close beside us, and near them<br /> - The lithe, brown men from India—heroes they.<br /> - We felt like children just discarding toys<br /> - In face of those whose souls had long known war,<br /> - Whose spirits flashed like rapiers in the face<br /> - Of the Great Danger. They were men indeed<br /> - Whom it was good to look upon and know,<br /> - And in those nights they learned of us to say,<br /> - When German flares lit up the evening skies,<br /> - "Behold the Northern Lights!" St. Julien came,<br /> - And that wild night in which old Edward fell.<br /> - Those hours are hard to speak about at all.<br /> - They went by like a flash in which we moved<br /> - As one man altogether, and the hours<br /> - Flared up to heaven like a burning torch.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Nigel and I, one night just after Ypres,<br /> - Were struggling with our ancient college-French<br /> - Talking, or stumbling into talk, with one<br /> - Called René Paule, from an adjacent trench,<br /> - Who had been wounded in an early fight.<br /> - And he with eloquence and poetry<br /> - Like all his vivid race, made haste to tell<br /> - Of a strange rumor we had heard before,<br /> - How in the depths of plain unvarnished hell<br /> - Quivering with anguish so he could not move<br /> - And waiting for the stretcher-bearers' call,<br /> - He suddenly felt healing, cool and sweet,<br /> - As you might feel a fan on a hot day<br /> - Swayed by an unseen hand. And softly then<br /> - Closing his eyes on blessed, stealing sleep<br /> - He felt a touch, and looking up beheld<br /> - The kindest, sweetest eyes in all the world.<br /> - It was a Comrade in the khaki brown,<br /> - His face was tired, but the eyes were keen<br /> - And tender as a dewy flower at dawn.<br /> - And René, feeling once again the pain,<br /> - Grasped the hand tight, and looked into the eyes<br /> - For succor, and they held him there, serene,<br /> - And slowly, slowly conquered the strong pain.<br /> - And René saw the khaki melt away<br /> - Until the Comrade seemed all wrapt in white<br /> - As though sheer light had woven a robe for him,<br /> - And his strong eyes gleamed like an azure flame,<br /> - And he held René through the bitter night,<br /> - Until the stretcher-bearers came at dawn.<br /> - "So the White Comrade often comes, my friends,"<br /> - He said to us, and smiling, mused awhile.<br /> - "These fields are not so difficult in death;<br /> - Whether we live or die it all seems one.<br /> - He has come back to us because we die<br /> - As He did, long ago, for love of man."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Often we talked of Edward, and he seemed<br /> - To march beside us down the bright French roads.<br /> - We moved into the firing line once more.<br /> - So close the German lines, there only lay<br /> - An orchard, in the loveliness of May,<br /> - Between us and the armies of the Huns.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Sometimes I think that Festubert will hold<br /> - Rank equal with St. Julien, for those<br /> - Who lived through its abandonment of fire.<br /> - It was the Gunners' day. We had to shell<br /> - Those trenches that were fortresses indeed,<br /> - And pouring hell's own native thunder out.<br /> - The orchard lay between us, and it seemed<br /> - We simply had to take that place by storm.<br /> - They tried to ditch us with their hedge of wire;<br /> - We plunged and made for gaps, and all the while<br /> - They rained on us artillery fire, until<br /> - Ear drums were stilled and nerves quite ceased to work;<br /> - Machine gun, shrapnel, rifle-fire as one<br /> - Kept up the deadly dance of death. And we<br /> - Dashed at them, through that dance, till hand to hand<br /> - We cleared our orchard, or they say we did.<br /> - It was the Gunners' Day. I know that much.<br /> - Some of the fun I missed, for at the height,<br /> - Just when is lost completely every thought<br /> - Of one's own entity, or reason why<br /> - It is not, after all, good sport to die<br /> - In such a whirlwind of emotion,—then,<br /> - Out of a little puff of air it came,<br /> - The one shot meant for me.<br /> - I fell inert<br /> - And sank into unconsciousness, till one<br /> - Dragging me off made torture of my wound,<br /> - Then left me under some small spreading shrubs.<br /> - Surely one needed shelter from the sun<br /> - And hottest air that ever poured on pain.<br /> - I longed for water, looked for human aid,<br /> - But no one came. Only the roar of guns<br /> - And a far distant sound that meant the play<br /> - Of men in action, that and drilling pain<br /> - Met in a hideous duet of war.<br /> - I called to Nigel with my aching mind<br /> - And knew it was in vain. Again I called<br /> - To youth, and to some Force in other worlds<br /> - That might put me to death or ease my pain.<br /> - A thousand swords were running through my brain,<br /> - The blood thumped like an engine in my head.<br /> - If I should faint the Comrade White might come!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Only in dreams, in dying dreams of pain<br /> - He comes, I thought. Or else it is quite vain<br /> - To trust such fairy tales as René told.<br /> - Oh, for a glass of water! It was noon<br /> - And o'er the grassy plain the sleepy hum<br /> - Of insects, moving in a drowsy swoon,<br /> - Sang to me through my pain, as if they were<br /> - A near vibration of the guns of war.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "War, war, O hot and hideous and hard,<br /> - The ways you lead, the deaths you make one die!<br /> - I have died fifty times this noon!" So ran<br /> - The anguished brain within me, on and on,<br /> - All the long way of quivering mortal woe.<br /> - The world was gone. I, swooning, felt it go,<br /> - Was at the point of nothingness, when there,<br /> - Moving across the grass on hands and knees,<br /> - I saw a brown-clad figure crawling slow<br /> - As if he were a part of the hot plain,<br /> - And wondered if I'd last until he came.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Never that troop of angels in the air<br /> - At Mons showed brighter wings or lovelier light<br /> - Than the worn khaki of that Comrade dear.<br /> - I felt him bind my wounds with tender touch,<br /> - And at his touch the ghosts of pain escaped.<br /> - I saw him smile above me, and I swooned<br /> - For joy of waking up not all alone.<br /> - I begged "Stay with me till they come!" and then<br /> - Looked up into his face for the first time<br /> - And saw it was old Edward who had died<br /> - At Julien. We left him lying there<br /> - White in the moonlight as we all rushed on.<br /> - We buried him, Edward the loved and brave,<br /> - And now I stared through pain and saw his face.<br /> - I saw his eyes, shining and lit with love:<br /> - The old eyes, staunch and loyal as they were<br /> - All through our youth together, and these days<br /> - Of the great camaraderie of war.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Edward," I murmured, and he only smiled<br /> - And waved across the grass right at the guns<br /> - Whose thunder sounded fainter in my ears.<br /> - "How did you come?" I asked him, as I held<br /> - Tight to his hand, that big brown hand of his.<br /> - Oh, it was good to die and have him back!<br /> - For I had died. That was quite clear to me.<br /> - He only said, "The pain will go, old chap!"<br /> - Just the same voice, with the accustomed burr<br /> - Of his Scotch father sounding through its tones.<br /> - And we sat silent in the burning noon.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then in the distance two small figures moved,<br /> - A third behind them, and I knew the boys<br /> - Bearing the stretchers were quite close at hand,<br /> - And Edward waved them so they came on fast.<br /> - To have him leave me! That were a new death<br /> - And something told me that he could not stay.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "I long to die, just now, before they come!"<br /> - This I told Edward with what strength I had.<br /> - And he laughed softly, and I held his hand,<br /> - Looked at him long, until the blinding noon<br /> - Came to bend down between us, and his face,<br /> - Tender and brown and kindly, seemed enwrapt<br /> - In a white light, mysterious and strong,<br /> - Turning the khaki silver. And the hand<br /> - Holding me fast was part of the great light.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I closed my eyes. And now the boys had come,<br /> - Lifted me up, taken me quite away<br /> - To a camp hospital where Nigel lay<br /> - Wounded as I was, out of all vain hope<br /> - Of further fighting for a long half year.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The stretcher-bearers story? It was this:<br /> - That a strange glow had rested on the shrubs<br /> - 'Neath which I lay—just a broad patch of light<br /> - To show there was a human being there<br /> - In need of human aid. And so they came.<br /> - "You were half gone, my friend," they said to me,<br /> - "It was a wonder that we saw you there!<br /> - Strange that the sun so centred on that spot!"<br /> - And Nigel, when I told him, said "I think<br /> - You were mistaken, but I dare not say<br /> - What is revealed to any man these days.<br /> - You know the angels that appeared at Mons!<br /> - Many have seen bright angels on the field.<br /> - I have not seen, but then my eyes are dim,<br /> - My vision turns back home so constantly.<br /> - If I were dying I should think of her,<br /> - She is my Christ, my angel and my hope.<br /> - Before each battle I make prayers to her,<br /> - And so the earthly love is still my goal.<br /> - There are two Comrades, Love and Loneliness,<br /> - Perhaps Christ enters when we touch the last.<br /> - Loneliness waiteth long, until we give<br /> - The last glad hold we have on life, and I—<br /> - I have not given yet my hold on life."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And now in this green England that we saw<br /> - Radiant and smiling in our early dreams,<br /> - We two are marking time, looking at hills<br /> - And these small village streets, and playing cards<br /> - And telling yarns, and idling in the sun.<br /> - And as we limp about and wait, sing songs,<br /> - Exchange the tales of trench and hot assault<br /> - And hear again the whistling shrapnel call,<br /> - Muse in the firelight, laugh at old alarms,<br /> - And wait impatient to be off again,<br /> - Sometimes we two, amid the comrades here,<br /> - Sometimes we two go silent. Then look up<br /> - To see if we can find in others' eyes<br /> - A knowledge that has grown with us from out<br /> - The fields of France, when in those awful nights<br /> - <i>Some of us heard a rumor, saw a Form.</i><br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And so, my friends, this word I bring to you<br /> - Hot from the hell of conflict whence I come,<br /> - Where life and death, binding men's spirits close,<br /> - Have sealed a certain knowledge on our souls.<br /> - Christ has come back to earth in these great days,<br /> - I, but a young Canadian, tell you this.<br /> - The stories of our battles,—Neuve Chapelle,<br /> - St. Julien, Festubert, and all the rest—<br /> - They have been told already scores of times,<br /> - Sung, written, painted, burned in words of flame.<br /> - My words are homely as a tallow dip,<br /> - As crude as that, but just as stoutly true.<br /> - Christ has come back to earth in these great days,<br /> - He has come back, as in the centuries past<br /> - He suddenly appeared upon the streets<br /> - Of old Judean towns. Let people talk<br /> - Of ancient creeds and dogmas as they will,<br /> - That helps not, hinders not, the vital truth<br /> - That one young man in his most ardent youth<br /> - So loved life, felt life, understood its laws,<br /> - So took pain to his heart, so took great love,<br /> - And knew that pain and love are always one,<br /> - And knew that death can be lived through to life,<br /> - Till he commanded death, and death obeyed.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - So comes the Comrade White, down silent pain.<br /> - He comes to woods and battlefields to-day,<br /> - (Sometimes I think he loves the woods the best)<br /> - And finds free souls flung skyward, glad to go.<br /> - Among the lonely and the pain-racked ones<br /> - He comes—not death at all, but radiant life,<br /> - Comes in the eyes of comrades, lives in hearts<br /> - That give all, taking nothing in return.<br /> - He is a rumor and a far white light,<br /> - He is the singing bird, the children's flute<br /> - That called us wooing forth to give our all.<br /> - The floating glad things of the buoyant air,<br /> - Young earth's warm children, music and delight,<br /> - Live in His eyes: those deathless azure eyes,<br /> - That smile upon the moment we thought hard,<br /> - And turn our sacrifice to kindling light.<br /> - <i>They pass through radiant gates on whom He smiles.</i><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="awakening"></a> - THE AWAKENING -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - How like a giant stretching in the sun,<br /> - We have slept through the ages; even we<br /> - Whom the gods moulded for a people free,<br /> - And made tremendous for the race not run.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - See we have slept a magic cycle round,<br /> - And in the dream we have imagined much;<br /> - Felt the soft wings of years we did not touch,<br /> - Dallied with somnolence that deadens sound.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - With untried strength what we have done is done.<br /> - The wandering, drowsy brain has vaguely stirred,<br /> - As though from out infinitude it heard<br /> - A great voice speaking from behind the sun.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Closer and clear the calling, strangely loud,<br /> - And the great country, rousing from long sleep<br /> - Murmurs to its own soul, as deep to deep<br /> - Beckons a day's new dawn, so sure and proud.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - These were the visions of a passing night,<br /> - Visions now caught in bugle notes of flame,<br /> - <i>And lo, through storms of war we hear our name<br /> - Called by an angel, terrible and bright.</i><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="hearts"></a> - THE HEARTS OF MOTHERS<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The hearts of mothers are hid things<br /> - In these the days of woe,<br /> - And troops of strange thoughts move therein<br /> - Silently to and fro.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - They are not thoughts of yester-year,<br /> - Or thoughts of you and me<br /> - And that which we have done, or do,<br /> - By air, or land, or sea.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But these are thoughts steel-bright with pain,<br /> - And death-thoughts bare and stark,<br /> - And shining thoughts of armaments<br /> - That glitter through the dark.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - They move, old passions and revolts,<br /> - Fresh-called, yet stiff with scars,<br /> - To music crimsoned with the clash<br /> - Of endless ancient wars.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And those who summon memories<br /> - From pathways of the sun,<br /> - When death spoke life most solemnly<br /> - Ere new life was begun,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - They dream of a strange blooming<br /> - That dawns in greater birth:<br /> - The frail, bright flower of selflessness<br /> - Brought back again to earth.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - They feel, the Givers of all Life,<br /> - Great need to give again<br /> - The utmost dower of womanhood,<br /> - All mystery—all pain.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="soul"></a> - SOUL OF THE EARTH<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - I saw a tired soldier vainly searching<br /> - For room to bury deeply the new dead.<br /> - "The old dead they are there, forever perching<br /> - About the space we need," he grimly said.<br /> - "The old dead, slaughtered, just beneath the sod<br /> - Of Earth that once was well-beloved of God."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I heard a woman desperate in her wooing<br /> - Of empty space and echoing aisles of air,<br /> - Calling upon the gods of her undoing<br /> - To stem the fearful flood of her despair.<br /> - "Somewhere in France he lies so deep," she said.<br /> - "That Earth must make me answer for my dead."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And all the while a wondrous bloom was springing<br /> - Above the fields where lie these broken boys,<br /> - Thousands of souls like butterflies upwinging<br /> - In troop on radiant troop of shining joys.<br /> - Host upon host they seek eternal breath<br /> - Above the little mounds of lonely death.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Thus," saith the Earth, "my poppies pass in splendor,<br /> - Flame of young hearts, for still my world is young,<br /> - And in great Ages, wise because more tender,<br /> - The passion of their passing shall be sung.<br /> - Ask of these Ages! For the soul of me<br /> - Knows endless blooming—vivid, changing, free."<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="gown"></a> - I USED TO WEAR A GOWN OF GREEN<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - I used to wear a gown of green<br /> - And sing a song to May,<br /> - When apple blossoms starred the stream<br /> - And Spring came up the way.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I used to run along with Love<br /> - By lanes the world forgets,<br /> - To find in an enchanted wood<br /> - The first frail violets.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And ever 'mid the fairy blooms<br /> - And murmur of the stream,<br /> - We used to hear the pipes of Pan<br /> - Call softly through our dream.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But now, in outcry vast, that tune<br /> - Fades like some little star<br /> - Lost in an anguished judgment day<br /> - And scarlet flames of war.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - What can it mean that Spring returns<br /> - And purple violets bloom,<br /> - Save that some gypsy flower may stray<br /> - Beside his nameless tomb!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - To pagan Earth her gown of green,<br /> - Her elfin song to May—<br /> - <i>With all my soul I must go on<br /> - Into the scarlet day.</i><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="departure"></a> - THE DEPARTURE<br /> -</h3> - -<p> -"We watched the boys march singing through the streets of -Kingston. We cheered to them and waved to them as the train -pulled out." CONINGSBY DAWSON, in "<i>The Passing of the 34th.</i>" -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - How you passed out singing on that winter day!<br /> - All the air was ringing with your laughter gay;<br /> - With the song and banter that made light the way.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - There were few sighs wasted on dividing years,<br /> - There was mirth and music, kisses, hopes and fears,<br /> - Cigarettes and banners, chocolates, socks and tears.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Swifter than your passing did the fancy run,<br /> - Soldiers, horses, bayonets—how you all seemed one,<br /> - Flashing through the snowflakes and the veiled sun;<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Every woman cheered you, some few women wept,<br /> - Graybeards longed to join you, peaceful babies slept;<br /> - But the land that bore you her own counsel kept.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Only, through the snowflakes sped a rift of light,<br /> - Keen as pointed sword-blade and intensely bright—<br /> - Like the Lord's hand resting on the ranks of right.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And our hearts would send you, as a song of spring,<br /> - Unforgotten echoes of the songs you sing,<br /> - And the hope and courage that the new days bring.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Here's our love and greeting from the old home town;<br /> - Here's to speedy meeting, and to your renown;<br /> - Here's to every gallant heart in the khaki brown!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The White Comrade and Other Poems, by -Katherine Hale - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE COMRADE AND OTHER POEMS *** - -***** This file should be named 63155-h.htm or 63155-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/1/5/63155/ - -Produced by Al Haines -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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