WHARFEDALE.

TO MEMORY

Mem'ry, sweet witch! you brought him to my door.
    I heard you knock, and saw your fingers ope
    The rosy gateway of a lingering hope,
And I beheld his dear face as of yore.
You held him by the hand I oft caressed,
    And seemed so small a sprite by his tall side,
    As in his leathern coat you tried to hide,
The same old coat my cheek so often pressed.

Then searchingly his deep blue eyes found mine,
    As if to plead against forgetfulness,
    With all the old-time loving kindliness:
And then you led him back without one sign.
    Sweet little Mem'ry, lead him back once more,
    And, knocking, bring him in, and close the door.

A WAR PRAYER FOR A LITTLE BOY

Morning

The day is just beginning,
    But all the long night through,
The sailor-men were watching
    Out in the dark night blue.
        Dear God! when my turn comes,
        May my watch be as true.

Evening

The long, still night is coming,
    But whilst I've been at play,
The soldier-men were fighting
    Thro' all the live-long day.
        Dear God! when my turn comes,
        Please keep me brave as they.

ROBIN HOOD'S BAY.

STAR-SCANDAL

One summer eve, my own dear love and I
    Sat arm-entwined beneath a rowan-tree.
A little wind flew past us with a sigh,
    And all the velvet leaves waved merrily.
Then, as mine eyes escaped his ardent glance,
    I saw a star peep o'er the purple hill
And climb up to the topmost branch and dance,
    And wink at its reflection in the rill.
"Come, kiss me once, O timorous-hearted Love.
    Full many thousand kisses dost thou owe.
Prithee but one, thy pretty love to prove;
    No one in all the world shall ever know."
No one? That spying star but told a poet,
    And in a song he let the whole world know it.

THE FIRST OF JULY 1916

For the Mothers, Wives, and Sweethearts
of the 15th West Yorks ("Leeds Pals")

I

'Tis passing wonderful that they,
The little boys of yesterday,
Should suddenly become such men
That England rings with praise of them.
But tho' their names are writ in blood
—Deepening crimson flood on flood—
Their impositions writ awry
And copybooks are hardly dry;
And Sweetheart Life had scarcely kissed
The boy to man, when the blue mist
Of twilight lifted; and the dawn
Announced that rosy day was born.

As pink-curled clouds lit up the sky
A little gentle breeze whisked by
Caressing all the poppy-heads—
Rippling fields of budding reds—
Splashes of yellow sunned the earth
Where mustard meadows flowered mirth;
And cornflowers blue ran out to meet
The blue around God's Mercy-seat.
O! all the world and all the sky
Made it a sacrifice to die.

II

'Tis passing wonderful that they,
The little boys of yesterday,
Who cuddled to dear Mother-hearts
With darling rosy-fingered arts,
Did cheer with strong expectancy
The shattering artillery;
And smilingly went o'er the top
Unflinchingly without a stop
Into the poppied "No Man's Land."
Wave after wave, band after band,
Through the terror of bursting shells,
Through the noise of a thousand hells,
Through th' unmanning groans of pain,
Through the blood of the splendid slain
Lying under a blue-cupped sky,
As wave after wave swept bravely by.
From flowers of blue to the Endless Blue
Hundreds of souls are passing thro',
And the poppies weep o'er the red-spilled lives:
O! at home are the mothers, the waiting wives.

III

'Tis passing wonderful that they,
The little boys of yesterday
Who played with us, who teased us too,
Should such tremendous actions do.
No praise, no honour is too high
For those who gave so cheerfully:
Gave up the wonder of the spring,
Gave up the wealth that summers bring,
Gave up the gold of autumn's store,
Leaving us richer than before.

Unflinching bravery of soul!
Ring out your splendid deathless toll,
Ring down the years untiringly
In the hearts of the children-yet-to-be.
The carillon of your ideals
You'll hear again in their sweet peals;
God grant that we may squarely fight
For all you held to be upright.

LEEDS, July 1st, 1917.

"THE IDEAL MAN"

He should be strong—as strong as Thor of old;
    And faults of strength 'twere better he possessed
    Than quavering mind or any lack of zest
When the time needs a right arm coolly bold.
Truth should to him be what the unpent song
    Is to the soaring lark; with kindly thought
    For everything that cold Misfortune's sought;
With earnest faith to fight a cause proved wrong.

A heart that finds the best in every man;
    Impatient he should be at all delay
    Or if not giv'n at once his own sweet way—
(But then a fault or two is Nature's plan),
    Yet I would wish his chiefest fault should be
    A wilfulness to see no fault in me!

SEMER WATER.

TO THE COMING SPRING

Hope and Spring! You are sisters!

In my woodlands
    The primroses are peeping
With pale, sweet golden eyes,
    In spite of Winter's weeping.

In my woodlands
    A thrush has just swung, dipping,
In search of his spring voice;
    The trees stand dripping, dripping.

In my woodlands
    Harsh Winter coldly shivers;
The windflower, white adventurer,
    With hope of springtime quivers.

Soon my woodlands,
    Bearing bannerets of Spring,
Will be every moment musical
    With birds that, mating, sing.

Hope and Spring! You are sisters!

Oh, Spring! Spring!
    Since the Autumn died in glory,
How I have yearned for your coming
    Thro' the cloistral fog-bound days,
Your beauty seemed a story
    That would never be told again.
Spring! of the pearly cloud-skies
    Soft-curled as a baby's hand,
Turquoise as children's eyes,
    Of rainbow-tinctured days
And twittering song of the eaves!

Spring! You desired vision,
    The wind in your primrose hair,
Your eyes, too, weepingly ready,
    Your face, an anemone fair;
Your train, a burgeoning pattern
    Be-sprent with woodland flowers,
Blackthorn, daffies, bluebells,
    Marking the flight of our hours.

Spring! Tho' it still is Winter,
In your mystic sleep you smile,
Yet the primroses and the thrush on