And no begging men in her streets.

But a hand ever cut my Heaven
With the sharpness of a sword,
There was the very riot of gladness,
Reckless squander of Joy's hoard;
Lechery and sad Corruption
Danced in clinging robes of Light;
Beauty smiled in the arms of Terror
And diced with the minions of Night.

And you sprang to England's banner, comrade,
With glad praises on your lips,
To the song of her sabres ringing
And the thunder of her ships.
But a sword broods in the darkness
Whose sweep is the wind's sway,
And the dumb white ships of Heaven
Bear dimly Earth's glory away.

The still white ships of Heaven
Steal out beneath the stars;
And the grieving, sorrowing sailors
Are the dead men of the wars.
They reck not of the chilly seas
That wildly round them churn.
And the dusk scatters before the prows,
And the leaping waters burn.

The pirate fleets of Heaven
Sweep forth into the night,
Laden with spoils of the living,
Their jewels of delight,
Their topazes and rubies,
The bawds that gave them pleasure;
And the sad thieves reef the swelling sails,
And steal from Earth her treasure.

And the night hangs heavy on you, comrade,
And the bitter War goes on.
You are parched for Heaven's starlight
And her soft, refreshing sun.
Joy runs with a passion of swiftness
On the gray feet of the wind.
The doors of darkness tremble;
Then swing back blind.

But you'll be a new man, one day,
Where the west wind thrills.
You'll walk with your olden vigour
Where Heaven clasps the great lone hills.
And the evening sun will squander
Soft lustre of red wine,
And we'll drink the ripest vintage
Where the sun and stars shine.

For the Lord is kind to fishers
Of the river and the sea,
For the sake of Simon Peter
And the lads of Galilee;
For the sake of Simon Peter,
Who so lightly would us shrive,
We will drink the wine of Heaven
And give praise we are alive.

All our days will shine with gladness,
All our nights with rich repose;
Laughter will breathe from our spirits
Like the sweet scent from the rose.
And Joy in glittering armour
Will go forth as with a sword,
When we climb the fells together
To the glory of the Lord.

Sweet sounds will rise from the moorland,
And bird and bee awake.
Beauty will break and blossom
For each stricken soldier's sake.
Oh, your heart will leap with joy, Charley,
And your spirit know rest,
When we fish a little river
I've heard singing in the West!

ALTENAHR, 1915

THE SOLDIERS