Contrasts

If I were on the High Road
That runs to Malvern Town,
I should not need to read, to smoke,
My fear of death to drown;
Watching the clouds, skies, shadows dappling
The sweet land up and down.

But here the shells rush over,
We lie in evil holes,
We burrow into darkness
Like rabbits or like moles,
Men that have breathed the Severn air,
Men that have eyes and souls.

To-day the grass runs over
With ripples like the sea,
And men stand up and drink air
Easy and sweet and free;
But days like this are half a curse,
And Beauty troubles me.

The shadows under orchards there
Must be as clear and black--
At Minsterworth, at Framilode--
As though we had all come back;
Were out at making hay or tedding,
Piling the yellow stack.

The gardens grow as freshly
On Cotswold’s green and white;
The grey-stone cottage colours
Are lovely to the sight,
As we were glad for dreams there,
Slept deep at home at night;

While here we die a dozen deaths
A score of times a day;
Trying to keep up heart and not
To give ourselves away.
“Two years longer,” “Peace to-morrow,”
“Some time yet,” they say!