Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far, That outshone all the suns of all men's days. Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me The inenarrable godhead of delight? Love is a flame; we have beaconed the world's night. An emperor:-we have taught the world to die. And set them as a banner, that men may know, To dare the generations, burn, and blow Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming.... These I have loved: White plates and cups, clean-gleaming, Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faëry dust; The good smell of old clothes; and other such— The comfortable smell of friendly fingers, Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers Dear names, Royal flames; And thousand others throng to me! Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train; Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power —Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake, ... But the best I've known, Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown About the winds of the world, and fades from brains. Of living men, and dies. Nothing remains. O dear my loves, O faithless, once again Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved." If I should die, think only this of me; In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; Joseph Plunkett Joseph Plunkett was born in Ireland in 1887 and devoted himself to the cause that has compelled so many martyrs. He gave all his hours and finally his life in an effort to establish the freedom of his country. He was one of the leaders of that group of Nationalists which included MacDonagh and Padraic Pearse. After the Easter Week uprising in Dublin in 1916, Plunkett and his compatriots were arrested by the British Government and executed. 1 From The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission. I SEE HIS BLOOD UPON THE ROSE I see His blood upon the rose And in the stars the glory of His eyes, I see His face in every flower; The thunder and the singing of the birds All pathways by His feet are worn, His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea, F. W. Harvey Harvey was a lance-corporal in the English army and was in the German prison camp at Gütersloh when he wrote The Bugler, one of the isolated great poems written during the war. Much of his other verse is haphazard and journalistic, although Gloucestershire Friends contains several lines that glow with the colors of poetry. THE BUGLER God dreamed a man; Then, having firmly shut Life like a precious metal in his fist Withdrew, His labour done. Our various divinity and sin. Thus did begin For some to ploughshares did the metal twist, Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat For me, I do but bear within my hand With one high morning note a drowsing man: That sound may come, 'twill echo far and wide T. P. Cameron Wilson "Tony" P. Cameron Wilson was born in South Devon in 1889 and was educated at Exeter and Oxford. He wrote one novel besides several articles under the pseudonym Tipuca, a euphonic combination of the first three initials of his name. When the war broke out he was a teacher in a school at Hindhead, Surrey; and, after many months of gruelling conflict, he was given a captaincy. He was killed in action by a machine-gun bullet March 23, 1918, at the age of 29. SPORTSMEN IN PARADISE They left the fury of the fight, And they were very tired. The gates of Heaven were open quite, |