65

The Great War

Into His colour store God dipped His hand
And drew it forth
Full of strange hues forgotten, contraband
Of War and Wrath.

Time wove the pattern of the years, that so
The quick and dead
Might knit their bleeding crosses in. And lo!
A patch of red!

My London Garden, 1914

My Garden is a tiny square
Of bordered green
And gravel brown
In misty town,
And chimneys smoky and unclean
Sweep to the sky.--_You_ would not care
To visit there.

The Grass creeps up all in between the stones
And raises undisturbed its luscious green
And laughs for youth in shrill and ringing tones.
I love it that it grows up so serene,
Dauntless and bright
And laughing me to scorn,
So vivid and so slight,
Glad for the night-shed dew and smoke-bred morn.

My little patch of bordered green and brown
Sleeps in the bosom of a grim old town,
I wish that you could see
Its beauty here with me;
I'd tell you many things you never knew,
For few, so few
Know the romance of such a London strip,
With ferny screen
That slants shy gleams of sunlight in between
And weeds which flourish just inside the dip,
Holding their tenure with a firm deep grip
Where prouder things all die.
Small wonder I
Tend my tall weed as tho' it were a gem,
Note every leaf, and watch the stalwart stem
Wax strong and high--
My weed plot lives in reckless luxury.

But, in the Spring, before black grime
Has done its worst,
And cruel Time
And dust accursed
Have marred the innocence of each young leaf,
Or soiled the blossoms, like a wanton thief--
Masses of tulips, pink and white,
Rise from the earth in prim delight,
And iris, king of pomp and state,
In vesture fine
And purple and pale gold
Its buds unfold--
A mighty potentate,
And marshals nobly, proudly into line,
Whilst lilacs sway in wind and rushing breeze,
Bowing and nodding to some poplar trees.

But stay!--
_You_ would not care
To visit there
Midst such surroundings grey.
My Garden's but an oasis of hope
Set in the frown
And dismal grandeur of a grim old town,
A semblance merely of the lawns _you_ see;
A hint, an echo of the things that be!
But he or she would be a misanthrope
Who