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34
AFTER THE CONFLICT
I
This is what the Snowdrop said
To the Crocus in the bed
Near the old green potting-shed:
Shall we, in our simple way,
Show the Peoples how to pray
For Christian Peace from day to day?
To the Crocus in the bed
Near the old green potting-shed:
Shall we, in our simple way,
Show the Peoples how to pray
For Christian Peace from day to day?
Near the old green potting-shed,
This is what the Crocus said
To the Snowdrop in the bed:
Empty dreaming. While we stay
Do not fret our holiday.
As Man's a slayer, let him slay.
This is what the Crocus said
To the Snowdrop in the bed:
Empty dreaming. While we stay
Do not fret our holiday.
As Man's a slayer, let him slay.
But the Snowdrop, thus denied
When her bosom-friend replied,
Breathing very quickly, cried:
Little temples would be wrong
Not to call the Fierce and Strong
To Matins and to Evensong.
When her bosom-friend replied,
Breathing very quickly, cried:
Little temples would be wrong
Not to call the Fierce and Strong
To Matins and to Evensong.
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Thereupon the Crocus, led
Suddenly to Mercy, said,
Bending down his conquered head:
Neighbour, have your gentle way.
Plead with God for Man, and say
That I, His Crocus, also pray.
Suddenly to Mercy, said,
Bending down his conquered head:
Neighbour, have your gentle way.
Plead with God for Man, and say
That I, His Crocus, also pray.
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II
Two hours a day he used to come
And bend above a masterpiece
The head that sculptors would have longed
To copy for the World of Greece.
And bend above a masterpiece
The head that sculptors would have longed
To copy for the World of Greece.
Men taught him how to kill his kind,
And shipped him off to Italy;
And there the boy was stung to death
In April by a leaden bee.
And shipped him off to Italy;
And there the boy was stung to death
In April by a leaden bee.
In falling thus so very soon
Where Right and Wrong and Passion trod,
He went, as he desired to go,
With hands unbloodied to his God.
Where Right and Wrong and Passion trod,
He went, as he desired to go,
With hands unbloodied to his God.
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III
Because I felt the largeness of a little loss,I went to see my Saviour hanging on His Cross
Beside the road to Headley, where I found the grace
Of moonlight slumbering on His holy face.
Behind Him, in three rows, each underneath the sign
That Jesus Christ of Nazareth made divine,
One hundred troopers, late of Canada, reposed,
Their fighting over and their living stories closed
By Death, who, glancing at the gentle Figure raised
As Shepherd of that folded flock, in silence praised
The wounds that did not heal. While lonely there I stood,
Bareheaded in the moonlight, lifting to the Good
And Patient both my hands, and in my hands the pride
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I grieved that I had walked across the silvered moor
So fast, with such a starveling sorrow to deplore,
When Christ was sadly listening to the prayers that sped
From mothers' lips in Canada to where the dead,
While waiting for the end of all this earthly loss,
Rest near their meek Commander on His Cross
Beside the road to Headley. If you pass that way,
Christian, improve your heart by stopping there to pray.
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IV
When Cousin stood
In Consolation Wood,
She flung her gloves away
And chattered like a jay.
In Consolation Wood,
She flung her gloves away
And chattered like a jay.
When Father found
Sweet violets on a mound,
He said, We ought to pick
A cross of them for Dick.
Sweet violets on a mound,
He said, We ought to pick
A cross of them for Dick.
When Mother stood
In Consolation Wood,
She lifted both her hands
To God. He understands.
In Consolation Wood,
She lifted both her hands
To God. He understands.
Had Jesus found
Us gathering on the mound,
He would have told us news
Of him we had to lose.
Us gathering on the mound,
He would have told us news
Of him we had to lose.
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V
A face like hers I had never seen:
The lips were leaden, the eyes were green;
Each bone declared itself, and thrust
Against the skin with the force of lust.
The teeth were such as the winter years
Yellow and slant in the mouth when nears
The thud of the graveyard spade; the hair
(Such as the ravening Furies wear
In many a golden master-strain
Sung by the fine Athenian brain),
Reeking of liniment, ether and smoke,
Was fit for only a devil to stroke.
Over the desert and famine of breast
The hands of a seeming corpse were pressed
Hard on a gown that was sticky with rum
And blood of the colour of rotten plum.
The lips were leaden, the eyes were green;
Each bone declared itself, and thrust
Against the skin with the force of lust.
The teeth were such as the winter years
Yellow and slant in the mouth when nears
The thud of the graveyard spade; the hair
(Such as the ravening Furies wear
In many a golden master-strain
Sung by the fine Athenian brain),
Reeking of liniment, ether and smoke,
Was fit for only a devil to stroke.
Over the desert and famine of breast
The hands of a seeming corpse were pressed
Hard on a gown that was sticky with rum
And blood of the colour of rotten plum.
How roughly had Passion worked to cake
The feet with poisonous mud, and make
Her daunting body a guy, to stand,
As a gift for God, in a Christian Land!
The feet with poisonous mud, and make
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As a gift for God, in a Christian Land!
She begged a copper or two of me
By right of her name. She was Victory.
By right of her name. She was Victory.
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VI
The Messenger returned
And glorious burned
With glory not his own
Beside the Throne.
And glorious burned
With glory not his own
Beside the Throne.
“How fares my world?” God said.
He bowed his head.
“Love they the Son I lent?”
He lower bent.
“Worship the Crucified?”
The Angel sighed.
“Honour the Law He kept?”
The Angel wept.
“Thy speechlessness,” said God,
“Is like a rod.
Almost I wish my Son
Elsewhere had gone;
For children of the dust
Reproach my trust.
Too long have they denied
His broken side
A balm; they use each year
That traitor spear;
They write above His head
A mock, instead
Of kneeling to accept
The tears He wept;
But still His shining love
Endures above
All follies and all sins,
And, therefore, wins.”
He bowed his head.
“Love they the Son I lent?”
He lower bent.
“Worship the Crucified?”
The Angel sighed.
“Honour the Law He kept?”
The Angel wept.
“Thy speechlessness,” said God,
“Is like a rod.
Almost I wish my Son
Elsewhere had gone;
For children of the dust
Reproach my trust.
Too long have they denied
His broken side
A balm; they use each year
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They write above His head
A mock, instead
Of kneeling to accept
The tears He wept;
But still His shining love
Endures above
All follies and all sins,
And, therefore, wins.”
“My only Son, draw near
To us and hear.
Hast thou the heart to go
Again below,
To tread afresh for Me
Gethsemane,
And stretch Thyself in loss
Upon the Cross
In mortal bitterness?”
To us and hear.
Hast thou the heart to go
Again below,
To tread afresh for Me
Gethsemane,
And stretch Thyself in loss
Upon the Cross
In mortal bitterness?”
Christ answered, Yes.
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