Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/158

This page has been validated.

158
REFLECTIONS

Burn your very soul with shame,
Till you dare not breathe that Name
That now you glibly advertise—
God as one of your allies.


Impious braggart, you forget;
God is not your conscript yet;
You shall learn in dumb amaze
That His ways are not your ways,
That the mire through which you trod
Is not the high white road of God.


To Whom, whichever way the combat rolls,
We, fighting to the end, commend our souls.


THE GUNS IN SUSSEX

LIGHT green of grass and richer green of bush
Slope upwards to the darkest green of fir;
How still! How deathly still! And yet the hush
Shivers and trembles with some subtle stir,
Some far-off throbbing, like a muffled drum,
Beaten in broken rhythm over sea,
To play the last funereal march of some
Who die to-day that Europe may be free.


The deep-blue heaven, curving from the green,
Spans with its shimmering arch the flowery zone;
In all God's earth there is no gentler scene,
And yet I hear that awesome monotone;
Above the circling midge's piping shrill,
And the long droning of the questing bee,
Above all sultry summer sounds, it still
Mutters its ceaseless menaces to me.


And as I listen all the garden fair
Darkens to plains of misery and death,
And looking past the roses I see there
Those sordid furrows, with the rising breath

Cookies help us deliver our services. By using our services, you agree to our use of cookies.