To F. W. H.

Ink black and lustreless may hold
A passion full of living fire:
Spring’s green the Autumn does enfold--
Things precious hide their bright in the mire.

And a whole county’s lovely pride
In one small book I found that made
More real the pictured Severn side
Than crash and shock of cannonade.

Beneath, more strong than that dread noise
The talk I heard of trees and men,
The still low-murmuring Earth-voice ...
God send us dreams in peace again.