My heart makes songs on lonely roads
To comfort me while you're away,
And strives with lovely sounding words
Its crowded tenderness to say.
The songs I had are withered
Or vanished clean,
Yet there are bright tracks
Where I have been,
He's gone, and all our plans
Are useless indeed.
We'll walk no more on Cotswolds
Where the sheep feed
I shot him, and it had to be
One of us 'Twas him or me.
'Couln't be helped' and none can blame
Me, for you would do the same
Who died on the wires, and hung there, one of two -
Who for his hours of life had chattered through
Infinite lovely chatter of Bucks accent:
Now, youth, the hour of thy dread passion comes;
Thy lovely things must all be laid away;
And thou, as others, must face the riven day
I watched the boys of England where they went
Through mud and water to do appointed things.
See one a stake, and one wire-netting brings,
As I went up by Ovillers
In mud and water cold to the knee,
There went three jeering, fleeing spectres,
That walked abreast and talked of me.
Pain, pain continual; pain unending;
Hard even to the roughest, but to those
Hungry for beauty . . . Not the wisest knows,
When March blows, and Monday's linen is shown
On the goose berry bushes, and the worried washer alone