Carry On!

The Shells

O my brave heart! O my strong heart! My sweet heart and gay, The soul of me went with you the hour you marched away, For surely she is soulless, this woman white, and still, Who works with shining metal to make the things that kill.

I tremble as I touch them,--so strange they are, and bright; Each one will be a comet to break the purple night. Grey Fear will ride before it, and Death will ride behind, The sound of it will deafen,--the light of it will blind!

And whom it meets in passing, but God alone will know; Each one will blaze a trail in blood--will hew a road of woe; O when the fear is on me, my heart grows faint and cold:-- I dare not think of what I do,--of what my fingers hold.

Then sounds a Voice, "Arise, and make the weapons of the Lord!" "He rides upon the whirlwind! He hath need of shell and sword! His army is a mighty host--the lovely and the strong,-- They follow Him to battle, with trumpet and with Song!"

O my brave heart! My strong heart! My sweet heart and dear,-- 'Tis not for me to falter,--'Tis not for me to fear-- Across the utmost barrier--wherever you may be,-- With joy unspent, and deathless, my soul will follow thee.

What have you seen upon the fields of France, Where through the drowsy grain, the gay red poppies dance, Unheeding splintered gun or broken lance?

Deep in the green-wood, shadow-laced, and still, What is it you have found, by fern-bed and by rill? What by each hollow--and each little hill?--

When o'er the sky the driven smoke-clouds flee, And through a dusky veil look down fearfully-- What do you find adrift upon the sea?

In the great mountains where the four winds blow,-- Where the King's cavalry, and his foot-soldiers go-- What have you seen beneath the shifting snow?

Little white Moon! So old,--so strangely bright-- How could you still shine on, unless you knew some night Here in the world you watch, all would be right!

But yesterweek where the cloud waves rolled Down a wind-swept sky that was grey, and cold, Sailed the hunter's moon,--a galleon of gold!

And now in the very depth of the night It is just a little flame, blown and white, Or a broken-winged moth on a weary flight.

But the steadfast trees at the forest rim, And the pines in places scented and dim, Still wait for one hunter, and watch for him.

And the wind in the branches whispers, "Why?" And the yellow leaves that go rustling by, Say only, "Remember," and sigh,--and sigh.

Dreams

Keep thou thy dreams--though joy should pass thee by; Hold to the rainbow beauty of thy thought; It is for dreams that men will oft-times die,-- And count the passing pain of death as nought.

Keep though thy dreams, though faith should faint and fail, And time should loose thy fingers from the creeds, The vision of the Christ will still avail To lead thee on to truth and tender deeds.

Keep thou thy dreams all the winter's cold, When weeds are withered, and the garden grey, Dream thou of roses with their hearts of gold,-- Beckon to summers that are on their way.

Keep thou thy dreams--the tissue of all wings Is woven first of them; from dreams are made The precious and imperishable things, Whose loveliness lives on, and does not fade.

Keep thou thy dreams, intangible and dear As the blue ether of the utmost sky,-- A dream may lift thy spirit past all fear, And with the great, may set thy feet on high!

Then heavily, as weighed by tears, each haunted moment goes, For dawn steps down the morning sky, in robes of gray and rose.

O fairies of the forest-ring, and little men in green, And pixies of the moonlight, and elves no eye hath seen, Brew us a magic potion, of deep and fairy power, A draught of Lethe--for one night--to tide us past that hour.

But the little wooden crosses You have given the peaceful dead, O the little wooden crosses, By each young low-lying head,-- Though the tender grasses hide them, Or they fall beneath the snows, Not a cross shall be forgotten,-- God Himself has counted those.

The Cry

They have laid him away; Even he who was always so strong and gay Will be locked in the earth till the judgment day; "Dust unto dust" I have heard the priest say.

He will never return; Though I weep my eyes blind, though I pray and yearn,-- Though the star-light goes out and the great suns burn Into whitest ash,--he will never return.

So of weeping--no more; It is tears fill the oceans from shore to shore; They have made the wind salt--the wind at my door; They harm the good ground--so of weeping--no more.

"Not again!" "Not again!" Do you hear the sea singing that one refrain? The pine trees, the wind and the wearysome rain All whisper it; "Never again!"--"Not again!"

Who can tell me--who knows, Where his lonely soul travels? Whither it goes?-- Has he gone like the leaves?--Like yesterday's snows?-- Speak, dear Lord of Death! You who died--and arose!

A War Chant

O England! Thy foe hath hated thee long, And his hate is a deadly thing; It was held in his heart till its growth was strong, Now, words have woven it into a song For little children to sing.

It is hatred that fashioned his shot and shell, And hatred hid death in the sea; In hatred the cannon have sounded a knell O'er the little homes where the peaceful dwell, And the humble-hearted be.

Thy foe hath swept the blue from the sky In a fury of smoke and flame; His guns are not stilled where the wounded lie,-- He hath shown no pity to those who die For the glory of his name.

He sealed his hate with the blood of his men-- O, the young in their coats of grey!-- They are cast aside, and in river, and fen, Deep-hidden, where none will find them again Till the last white judgment day.

Now mirth is forgotten and joy is dead; The world hath accepted its pain; Still, over old battlefields, newly red, The shattered ranks of his army are led In pomp and a high disdain.

Thy anger grows slowly, for thou art great, O England! thou well beloved land; When its tide is full-risen, then thou art Fate,-- And the angel who stands before the gate, The sword of flame in his hand!

When Jonquils Blow

When jonquils blow I think of one Who sleeps beneath the green; And all the light and song of life And all the golden sheen Turn cold and still before my eyes, While pearl-edged boughs of May Seen through a sudden mist of tears Are rimmed with ashen-gray.