III.--PLAINT OF FRIENDSHIP BY DEATH BROKEN
(R. P., LOOS, 1915)
God, if Thou livest, Thine eye on me bend, And stay my grief and bring my pain to end: Pain for my lost, the deepest, rarest friend _Man ever had, whence groweth this despair_.
I had a friend: but, O! he is now dead; I had a vision: for which he has bled: I had happiness: but it is fled.
_God help me now, for I must needs despair._
His eyes were dark and sad, yet never sad; In them moved sombre figures sable-clad; They were the deepest eyes man ever had, They were my solemn joy--_now my despair_.
In my perpetual night they on me look, Reading me slowly; and I cannot brook Their silent beauty, for nor crack nor nook Can cover me but they shall find me there.
His face was straight, his mouth was wide yet trim; His hair was tangled black, and through its dim Softness his perplexed hand would writhe and swim-- Hands that were small on arms strong-knit yet spare.
He stood no taller than our common span, Swam but nor farther leaped nor faster ran; I know him spirit now, who seemed a man.
_God help me now, for I must needs despair._
His voice was low and clear, yet it could rise And beat in indignation at the skies; Then no man dared to meet his fire-filled eyes, And even I, his own friend, did not dare.
With humorous wistfulness he spoke to us, Yet there was something more mysterious, Beyond his words or silence, glorious: I know not what, but we could feel it there.
I mind now how we sat one winter night While past his open window raced the bright Snow-torrent golden in the hot firelight....
I see him smiling at the streamered air.
I watched him to the open window go, And lean long smiling, whispering to the snow, Play with his hands amid the fiery flow And when he turned it flamed amid his hair.
Without arose a sudden bell's huge clang Until a thousand bells in answer rang And midnight Oxford hummed and reeled and sang Under the whitening fury of the air.
His figure standing in the fiery room....
Behind him the snow seething through the gloom....
The great bells shaking, thundering out their doom....
Soft Fiery Snow and Night his being were.
Yet he could be simply glad and take his choice, Walking spring woods, mimicking each bird voice; When he was glad we learned how to rejoice: If the birds sing, 'tis to my spite they dare.
All women loved him, yet his mother won His tenderness alone, for Moon and Sun And Rain were for him sister, brother, loved one, And in their life he took an equal share.
Strength he had, too; strength of unrusted will Buttressed his natural charity, and ill Fared it with him who sought his good to kill: He was its Prince and Champion anywhere.
Yet he had weakness, for he burned too fast; And his unrecked-of body at the last He in impatience on the bayonets cast, Body whose spirit had outsoared them there.
I had a friend, but, O! he is now dead.
Fate would not let me follow where he led.
In him I had happiness. But he is dead.
_God help me now, for I must needs despair._
God, if Thou livest, and indeed didst send Thine only Son to be to all a Friend, Bid His dark, pitying eyes upon me bend, And His hand heal, or _I must needs despair_.
IN HOSPITAL, _Autumn_, 1915.
IV.--BY THE WOOD
How still the day is, and the air how bright!
A thrush sings and is silent in the wood; The hillside sleeps dizzy with heat and light; A rhythmic murmur fills the quietude; A woodpecker prolongs his leisured flight, Rising and falling on the solitude.
But there are those who far from yon wood lie, Buried within the trench where all were found.
A weight of mould oppresses every eye, Within that cabin close their limbs are bound, And there they rot amid the long profound, Disastrous silence of grey earth and sky.
These once, too, rested where now rests but one, Who scarce can lift his panged and heavy head, Who drinks in grief the hot light of the sun, Whose eyes watch dully the green branches spread, Who feels his currents ever slowlier run, Whose lips repeat a silent '... Dead! all dead!'
O youths to come shall drink air warm and bright, Shall hear the bird cry in the sunny wood, All my Young England fell to-day in fight: That bird, that wood, was ransomed by our blood!
I pray you when the drum rolls let your mood Be worthy of our deaths and your delight.
1916.
THE AFTERMATH
I.--AT THE EBB
Alone upon the monotonous ocean's verge I take my stand, and view with heavy eye The grey wave rise. I hear its sullen surge, Its bubbling rush and sudden downward sigh....
My friends are dead ... there fades from me the light Of her warm face I loved; upon me stare In the dull noon or deadest hour of night The smiling lips and chill eyes of Despair.
A light wind blows.... I hear the low wave steal In and collapse like a despondent breath.
My life has ebbed: I neither see nor feel: I am suspended between life and death.
Again the wave caves in. O, I am worn Smoother than any pebble on the beach!
I would dissolve to that whence I was born, Or alway bide beyond the long wave's reach.
O Will, thou only strengthener of man's heart When all is gone--love and the love of friends, When even Earth's comfort has become a part Of that futility nor breaks nor mends:
Strengthen me now against these utmost wrongs; Stay my wrecked spirit within thy control, That men may find some fury in my songs Which, like strong wine, shall fortify the soul.
BENEATH GOLD CAP, _June_, 1916.
II.--ALONE
The grey wind and the grey sea Tossing under the long grey sky....
My heart is lonelier than the wind; My heart is emptier than the sky, And beats more heavily Than the cold surge beneath the gull, Wheeling with his reiterant cry Of loneliness.... All, all is lone: Alone!...
And so am I.