I
To P. G. B.
Philip, here, at the end of a year that, ending,
Spares for mankind a world that has not spared thee;
O’er the sole fathom of earth that may know thee, bending
Dry-eyed, bitterly smiling, I now regard thee.
Friend—nay, friend were a name too common, rather
Mind of my intimate mind, I may claim thee lover:
Thoughts of thy mind blown fresh from the void I gather;
Half of my limbs, head, heart in thy grave I cover:
I who, the soldier first, had at first designed thee
Heir, now health, strength, life itself would I give thee.
More than all that has journeyed hither to find thee,
Half a life from the wreckage saved to survive thee.
*****
Fare thee well then hence; for the scrutinous Devil
Finds no gain in the faults of thy past behaviour,
Seeing good flower everywhere forth from evil:
Christ be at once thy Judge, who is still thy Saviour,
Who too suffered death for thy soul’s possession;
Pardoned then thine offences, nor weighed the merit:
God the Father, hearing His intercession,
Calls thee home to Him. God the Holy Spirit
Grant thee rest therefore: a quiet crossing
From here to the further side, and a safe landing
There, no shore-waves breaking nor breeze tossing,
In the Peace of God, which passeth our understanding.
Christmas, 1918.
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