Country Sentiment

COUNTRY AT WAR.

     And what of home—how goes it, boys,
     While we die here in stench and noise?
     "The hill stands up and hedges wind
     Over the crest and drop behind;
     Here swallows dip and wild things go
     On peaceful errands to and fro
     Across the sloping meadow floor,
     And make no guess at blasting war.
     In woods that fledge the round hill-shoulder
     Leaves shoot and open, fall and moulder,
     And shoot again.  Meadows yet show
     Alternate white of drifted snow
     And daisies.  Children play at shop,
     Warm days, on the flat boulder-top,
     With wildflower coinage, and the wares
     Are bits of glass and unripe pears.
     Crows perch upon the backs of sheep,
     The wheat goes yellow:  women reap,
     Autumn winds ruffle brook and pond,
     Flutter the hedge and fly beyond.
     So the first things of nature run,
     And stand not still for any one,
     Contemptuous of the distant cry
     Wherewith you harrow earth and sky.
     And high French clouds, praying to be
     Back, back in peace beyond the sea,
     Where nature with accustomed round
     Sweeps and garnishes the ground
     With kindly beauty, warm or cold—
     Alternate seasons never old:
     Heathen, how furiously you rage,
     Cursing this blood and brimstone age,
     How furiously against your will
     You kill and kill again, and kill:
     All thought of peace behind you cast,
     Till like small boys with fear aghast,
     Each cries for God to understand,
     'I could not help it, it was my hand.'"

SOSPAN FACH.
     (The Little Saucepan)

     Four collier lads from Ebbw Vale
     Took shelter from a shower of hail,
     And there beneath a spreading tree
     Attuned their mouths to harmony.

     With smiling joy on every face
     Two warbled tenor, two sang bass,
     And while the leaves above them hissed with
     Rough hail, they started "Aberystwyth."

     Old Parry's hymn, triumphant, rich,
     They changed through with even pitch,
     Till at the end of their grand noise
     I called:  "Give us the 'Sospan' boys!"

     Who knows a tune so soft, so strong,
     So pitiful as that "Saucepan" song
     For exiled hope, despaired desire
     Of lost souls for their cottage fire?

     Then low at first with gathering sound
     Rose their four voices, smooth and round,
     Till back went Time:  once more I stood
     With Fusiliers in Mametz Wood.

     Fierce burned the sun, yet cheeks were pale,
     For ice hail they had leaden hail;
     In that fine forest, green and big,
     There stayed unbroken not one twig.

     They sang, they swore, they plunged in haste,
     Stumbling and shouting through the waste;
     The little "Saucepan" flamed on high,
     Emblem of hope and ease gone by.

     Rough pit-boys from the coaly South,
     They sang, even in the cannon's mouth;
     Like Sunday's chapel, Monday's inn,
     The death-trap sounded with their din.

     ***

     The storm blows over, Sun comes out,
     The choir breaks up with jest and shout,
     With what relief I watch them part—
     Another note would break my heart!