THERE’S a gleam of sun on the grey old street Where we used to walk in the Oxford days, And dream that the world lay beneath our feet In the dawn of a summer morning.
Now the years have passed, and it’s we who lie Crushed under the burden of world-wide woe, But the misty magic will never die From the dawn of an Oxford morning.
And the end delays, and perhaps no more I shall see the spires of my youth’s delight, But they’ll gladden my eyes as in days of yore At the dawn of Eternal Morning.
(IN MEMORY OF CAPTAIN E. H. BRITTAIN, M.C.)
ONLY the thought of a merry smile, The wistful dreaming of sad brown eyes-- A brave young warrior, face aglow With the light of a lofty enterprise.
Only the hope of a gallant heart, The steady strife for a deathless crown, In Memory’s treasures, radiant now With the gleam of a goal beyond renown.
Only the tale of a dream fulfilled, A strenuous day and a well-fought fight, A fearless leader who laughed at Death, And the fitting end of a gentle knight.
Only a Cross on a mountain side, The close of a journey short and rough, A sword laid down and a stainless shield-- No more--and yet, is it not enough?
WHEN the years of strife are over and my recollection fades Of the wards wherein I worked the weeks away, I shall still see, as a vision rising ’mid the War-time shades, The ward in France where German wounded lay.
I shall see the pallid faces and the half-suspicious eyes, I shall hear the bitter groans and laboured breath, And recall the loud complaining and the weary tedious cries, And sights and smells of blood and wounds and death.
I shall see the convoy cases, blanket-covered on the floor, And watch the heavy stretcher-work begin, And the gleam of knives and bottles through the open theatre door, And the operation patients carried in.
I shall see the Sister standing, with her form of youthful grace, And the humour and the wisdom of her smile, And the tale of three years’ warfare on her thin expressive face-- The weariness of many a toil-filled while.
I shall think of how I worked for her with nerve and heart and mind, And marvelled at her courage and her skill, And how the dying enemy her tenderness would find Beneath her scornful energy of will.