Recicourt, 1917

XVI

The dull-eyed girl in bronze implores Apollo
  To warm these dying satyrs and to raise
Their withered wreaths that rot in every hollow
  Or smoulder redly in the pungent haze. 
The shining reapers, gone these many days,
  Have left their fields disconsolate and sear,
Like bony sand uncovered to the gaze,
  In this, the ebb-tide of the year.

My wisest comrade turns into a swallow
  And flashes southward as the thickets blaze
In awful splendour; I, who cannot follow,
  Confront the skies’ unmitigated greys. 
The cynic faun whom I have known betrays
  A dangerous mood at night, and seems austere
Beneath the autumn noon’s distempered rays,
  In this, the ebb-tide of the year.

Ice quenches all reflection in the shallow
  Lagoon whose trampled margin still displays
Upheaval where the centaurs used to wallow;
  And where my favourite unicorns would graze,
A few wild ducks scream lamentable lays
  Of shrill derision desperate with fear,
Bleak note on note, phrase on discordant phrase,
  In this, the ebb-tide of the year.

Poor girl, how soon our garden world decays,
  Our metals tarnish, our loves disappear;
Dull-eyed we haunt these unfrequented ways,
  In this, the ebb-tide of the year.

Cambridge, 1920

XVII

The winter night is hard as glass;
The frozen stars hang stilly down;
I sit inside while people pass
From the dead-hearted town.

The tavern hearth is deep and wide,
The flames caress my glowing skin;
The icicles hang cold outside,
But I sit warm within.

The faces pass in blurring white
Outside the frosted window, lifting
Eyes against my cheerful night,
From their night of dreadful drifting.

Sharp breaths blow fast in a smoky gale,
Rags wander through the dull lamp light;
O my veins run gold with Christmas ale,
And the tavern fire is bright.

The midnight sky is clear as glass,
The stars hang frozen on the town,
I watch the dying people pass,
And I wrap me warm in my gown.

Brussels, 1919

XVIII

Chords, tremendous chords,
  Over the stricken plain,
The night is calling her ancient lords
  Back to their own again.

Vast, unhappy song,
  From incalculable space,
Calling the heavy-browed, the strong,
  Out of their resting-place.

Far from the lighted town,
  Over the snow and ice,
Their dreadful feet go up and down
  Seeking a sacrifice.

And can you find a way
  Where They will not come after? 
The vast chords hesitate and sway
  Into a sudden laughter.

Sheffield, 1917