And maimed you with a bullet long ago, And cleft your riotous ardour with a rift, And checked your youth’s tumultuous overflow, Gave back your youth to you, And packed in moments rare and few Achievements manifold And happiness untold, And bade you spring to Death as to a bride, In manhood’s ripeness, power and pride, And on your sandals the strong wings of youth. He let you leave a name To shine on the entablatures of truth, Forever: To sound forever in answering halls of fame.
For you soared onwards to that world which rags Of clouds, like tattered flags, Concealed; you reached the walls of chrysolite, The mansions white; And losing all, you gained the civic crown Of that eternal town, Wherein you passed a rightful citizen Of the bright commonwealth ablaze beyond our ken.
Surely you found companions meet for you In that high place; You met there face to face Those you had never known, but whom you knew; Knights of the Table Round, And all the very brave, the very true, With chivalry crowned; The captains rare, Courteous and brave beyond our human air; Those who had loved and suffered overmuch, Now free from the world’s touch. And with them were the friends of yesterday, Who went before and pointed you the way; And in that place of freshness, light and rest,
Where Lancelot and Tristram vigil keep Over their King’s long sleep, Surely they made a place for you, Their long-expected guest, Among the chosen few, And welcomed you, their brother and their friend, To that companionship which hath no end.
And in the portals of the sacred hall You hear the trumpet’s call, At dawn upon the silvery battlement, Re-echo through the deep And bid the sons of God to rise from sleep, And with a shout to hail The sunrise on the city of the Grail: The music that proud Lucifer in Hell Missed more than all the joys that he forwent. You hear the solemn bell At vespers, when the oriflammes are furled; And then you know that somewhere in the world, That shines far-off beneath you like a gem, They think of you, and when you think of them You know that they will wipe away their tears, And cast aside their fears; That they will have it so, And in no otherwise; That it is well with them because they know, With faithful eyes, Fixed forward and turned upwards to the skies, That it is well with you, Among the chosen few, Among the very brave, the very true.
DIFFUGERE NIVES, 1917
To J. C. S
The snows have fled, the hail, the lashing rain, Before the Spring. The grass is starred with buttercups again, The blackbirds sing.
Now spreads the month that feast of lovely things We loved of old. Once more the swallow glides with darkling wings Against the gold.
Now the brown bees about the peach trees boom Upon the walls; And far away beyond the orchard’s bloom The cuckoo calls.
The season holds a festival of light, For you, for me, The shadows are abroad, there falls a blight On each green tree.
And every leaf unfolding, every flower Brings bitter meed; Beauty of the morning and the evening hour Quickens our need.
All is reborn, but never any Spring Can bring back this; Nor any fullness of midsummer bring The voice we miss.
The smiling eyes shall smile on us no more; The laughter clear, Too far away on the forbidden shore, We shall not hear.
Bereft of these until the day we die, We both must dwell; Alone, alone, and haunted by the cry: “Hail and farewell!”
Yet when the scythe of Death shall near us hiss Through the cold air, Then on the shuddering marge of the abyss They will be there.
They will be there to lift us from sheer space And empty night; And we shall turn and see them face to face In the new light.
So shall we pay the unabated price Of their release, And found on our consenting sacrifice Their lasting peace.
The hopes that fall like leaves before the wind, The baffling waste, And every earthly joy that leaves behind A mortal taste.
The uncompleted end of all things dear, The clanging door Of Death, forever loud with the last fear, Haunt them no more.
Without them the awakening world is dark With dust and mire; Yet as they went they flung to us a spark, A thread of fire.
To guide us while beneath the sombre skies Faltering we tread, Until for us like morning stars shall rise The deathless dead.
