It was a painful thing to leave them there
Within the useless light and stirless air. 
“Let me show you the way.  Mind, there’s a stair

“Here, then another stair ten paces on.... 
Isn’t there a moon?  Good-bye.” 
                          And she was gone. 
Full moon upon the drenched fruit garden shone.

TRAVELLING

They talked of old campaigns, nineteen-fourteen
And Mons and watery Yser, nineteen-fifteen
And Neuve Chapelle, ’sixteen, ’seventeen, ’eighteen
And after.  And they grumbled, leaving home,
Then talked of nineteen-nineteen, nineteen-twenty
And after.

Their thoughts wandered, leaving home
Among familiar places and known years;
Anticipating in the river, of time
Rocks, rapids, shallows, idle glazing pools
Mirroring their dark dreams of heaven and earth. 
—­And then they parted, one to Chatham, one
To Africa, Constantinople one,
One to Cologne; and all to an unknown year,
Nineteen-nineteen perhaps, or another year.

THE SONG OF THE FOREST

(11th November, 1918)

I

To Thee, Most Holy, Most Obscure, light-hidden,
Shedding light in the darkness of the mind
As gold beams wake the air to birds a-wing;
To Thee, if men were trees, would forests bow
In all our land, as under a new wind;
To Thee, if trees were men, would forests sing
Lifting autumnal crowns and bending low,
Rising and falling again as inly chidden,
Singing and hushing again as inly bidden. 
To Thee, Most Holy, men being men upraise
Bright eyes and waving hands of unarticulating praise.

II

To Thee, Most Holy, Most Obscure, who pourest
Thy darkness into each wild-heaving human forest,
While some say, “’Tis so dark God cannot live,”
And some, “It is so dark He never was,”
And few, “I hear the forest branches give
Assured signs His wind-like footsteps pass;”
To Thee, now that long darkness is enlightened,
Lift men their hearts, shaking the death-chill dews. 
Even sad eyes with morning light are brightened,
And in this spiritual Easter’s lovely hues
Are no more with death’s arctic shadow frightened.

III

Here in this morning twilight gleaming pure
Mid the high forest boughs and making clear
The motion the night-wakeful brain had guessed;
Here in this peace that wonders, Is it Peace? 
And sighs its satisfaction on the shivering air;
Here, O Most Holy, here, O bright Obscure,
Every deep root within the earth’s quick breast
Knows that the long night’s ended and sore agitations cease,
And every leaf of every human tree
In England’s forest stirs and sings, Light Giver, now to Thee.