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106
LATE AUTUMN
Who grumbles? We have lost to Love the battle of the breast
And gone, as prisoners at night, beneath a yoke of stars.
Who grumbles? We have elbowed Death along a mountain-crest,
And taken from the hands of Life his royal gift of scars.
And gone, as prisoners at night, beneath a yoke of stars.
Who grumbles? We have elbowed Death along a mountain-crest,
And taken from the hands of Life his royal gift of scars.
We touched the world, and weighed the world, and called it half a load.
So many tunes were on our lips, we sang the blackbird's way,
And jested at the heels of Time. The master of that road
Moves on unwrinkled. We have grown veteran, stiff, and grey;
So many tunes were on our lips, we sang the blackbird's way,
And jested at the heels of Time. The master of that road
Moves on unwrinkled. We have grown veteran, stiff, and grey;
But neither soured nor listless. We are marching still to find
The kingdoms lost at Folly's word when Prayer and Faith were mute.
What matter if the Chieftain at the cross-road stare us blind
And bid us yield our heartbeats? We are ready to salute.
The kingdoms lost at Folly's word when Prayer and Faith were mute.
107
And bid us yield our heartbeats? We are ready to salute.
Look yonder, where the warrior beech, allied with frost and sun,
Now spreads in careless disarray his leaves along the ground,
As though to bare his muscles for the conflict just begun
With storms that want to see him fall in death across his mound.
Now spreads in careless disarray his leaves along the ground,
As though to bare his muscles for the conflict just begun
With storms that want to see him fall in death across his mound.
Not otherwise than he prepares to front the stress and gloom,
And counter in his sinewy style the legions of the north,
Let those of us whose feet are near the trysting-place of doom
Greatheartedly give battle till the hour of setting forth.
And counter in his sinewy style the legions of the north,
Let those of us whose feet are near the trysting-place of doom
Greatheartedly give battle till the hour of setting forth.
Though splintered heights refuse us, though crags are only dreams,
Though Death is but a field away from scything in our wheat,
There's still the lowland murmuring of confidential streams,
And still a rainbow curving on the cloud of our defeat.
Though Death is but a field away from scything in our wheat,
There's still the lowland murmuring of confidential streams,
And still a rainbow curving on the cloud of our defeat.
108
So you, my friend, and you, my friend, and I, prepared for Home,
As grey as album lavender, unsteady, stiff, and bent,
Must never shame the colours of the General soon to come
And march us through the defile where our worn-out fathers went.
As grey as album lavender, unsteady, stiff, and bent,
Must never shame the colours of the General soon to come
And march us through the defile where our worn-out fathers went.
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