Some ancient man with silver locks Will lift his weary face to say: 'War was a fiend who stopped our clocks Although we met him grim and gay.' And then he'll speak of Haig's last drive, Marvelling that any came alive Out of the shambles that men built And smashed, to cleanse the world of guilt. But the boys, with grin and sidelong glance, Will think, 'Poor grandad's day is done.' And dream of those who fought in France And lived in time to share the fun.
I watch you, gazing at me from the wall, And wonder how you'd match your dreams with mine, If, mastering time's illusion, I could call You back to share this quiet candle-shine.
For you were young, three hundred years ago; And by your looks I guess that you were wise ... Come, whisper soft, and Death will never know You've slipped away from those calm, painted eyes.
Strange is your voice ... Poor ninny, dead so long, And all your pride forgotten like your name. _'One April morn I heard a blackbird's song. And joy was in my heart like leaves aflame.'_
And so you died before your songs took wing; While Andrew Marvell followed in your wake. _'Love thrilled me into music. I could sing But for a moment,--but for beauty's sake.'_
Who passes? There's a star-lit breeze that stirs The glimmer of white lilies in the gloom. Who speaks? Death has his silent messengers. And there was more than silence in this room
While you were gazing at me from the wall And wondering how you'd match your dreams with mine, If, mastering time's illusion, you could call Me back to share your vanished candle-shine.
Tossed on the glittering air they soar and skim, Whose voices make the emptiness of light A windy palace. Quavering from the brim Of dawn, and bold with song at edge of night, They clutch their leafy pinnacles and sing Scornful of man, and from his toils aloof Whose heart's a haunted woodland whispering; Whose thoughts return on tempest-baffled wing; Who hears the cry of God in everything, And storms the gate of nothingness for proof.
Everyone suddenly burst out singing; And I was filled with such delight As prisoned birds must find in freedom, Winging wildly across the white Orchards and dark-green fields; on--on--and out of sight.
Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted; And beauty came like the setting sun: My heart was shaken with tears; and horror Drifted away ... O, but Everyone Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.