 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
85
Sons
I
We have sent them forth
To Christ's own rood;
Their feet are white
On the fields of blood,
And they must slake
Their young desire
In wells of death
And pits of fire.
To Christ's own rood;
Their feet are white
On the fields of blood,
And they must slake
Their young desire
In wells of death
And pits of fire.
The red cock crows
And the grey cock crows,
And there is red
On Flanders' snows;
And sun-scorched sand
And thirsty clay
Drink a red spilth
By Suvla Bay.
And the grey cock crows,
And there is red
On Flanders' snows;
And sun-scorched sand
And thirsty clay
Drink a red spilth
By Suvla Bay.
86
And where Azizeah's
Turrets gleam,
And Tigris glitters,
Like a dream,
Through nights of scent
And tinkling sounds,
Sleep rose-white dead
With rose-red wounds.
Turrets gleam,
And Tigris glitters,
Like a dream,
Through nights of scent
And tinkling sounds,
Sleep rose-white dead
With rose-red wounds.
II
I saw the Shadow
Count the fair
Sum of his takings;
Them that were
Children in years
When they were sped,
And now are mighty
Being dead.
Count the fair
Sum of his takings;
Them that were
Children in years
When they were sped,
And now are mighty
Being dead.
Like galaxies
Of stars, they shone
In the great places
They have won;
He sets them there,
No sting hath he,
And his is not
The Victory.
Of stars, they shone
In the great places
They have won;
He sets them there,
No sting hath he,
And his is not
The Victory.
87
And whom he spared
I saw return,
Ambassadors
From his brave bourne—
Strong with the wisdom
Of the Wars,
Bright from the camps
Of Conquerors.
I saw return,
Ambassadors
From his brave bourne—
Strong with the wisdom
Of the Wars,
Bright from the camps
Of Conquerors.
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |