A flower stirred, or hear, amidst the peace,
The inarticulate music of the bee:
Taste sweetness where sweat was, and, what is best,
Behind the veil that hangs across our sight,
One moment know the changelessness of light.
And so I have no pity for the dead,
They have gone out, gone out with flame and song,
A sudden shining glory round them spread;
Their drooping hands raised up again and strong;
Only I sorrow that a man must die
To find the unending beauty of the sky.
HYMN FOR THE VICTORIOUS DEAD
God, by the sea, by the resounding sea,
God, in the vales, God, on the golden plain,
God, in the dark of cities, tremblingly
We raise our hands, we raise our hearts, to Thee.
Our spirits, Father, see, we raise to Thee
In longing, Lord, in pain!
God, by the sea, more terrible than guns,
God, on the hills, low-bending, oh, Divine,
