Illustration by Joseph Lee from 'Work-a-day Warriors' by Joseph Lee, published in 1917
BACK TO LONDON
A POEM OF LEAVE
I have not wept when I have seenMy stricken comrades die;I have not wept when we have madeThe place where they should lie;My heart seemed drowned in tears, but stillNo tear came to my eye.
There is a time to weep, saith One,A season to refrain;How should it ope, this fount of tears,While I sate in the train,So that all blurred the landscape movedOutwith the window pane?
But one short day since I had leftA land upheaved and rent,Where Spring brings back no bourgeoning,As Nature's force were spent;Yet now I travelled in a trainThrough the kindly land of Kent!
A kindly land, a pleasant land,As welcome sight to meAs after purgatorial painsThe Plains of Heaven might be,When the wondrous Goodness that is GodDraws a soul from jeopardy.
A pleasant land, a peaceful landOf wooded hill and weald,Where kine stand knee-deep in the grass,And sheep graze in the field;A blessèd land, where a wounded heartMight readily be healed.
A wholesome land, where each white roadLeads to a ruddy hearth;Where still is heard the sound of songAnd the kindly note of mirth;Where the strong man cheerful wakes to toilAnd the dead sleep sound i' the earth.
I have not wept when I have seenMy chosen comrades die;I have not wept while we have diggedThe grave where they should lie;But now I lay my head in my hand.Lest my comrades see me cry.
The little children, two by two,Stand on the five-barred gate,And wave their hands to waft us homeLike passengers of state;My heart is very full, so fullIt holds no room for hate.
The children climb the five-barred gateAnd blow us kisses five,The little cripple in his carWaves from the carriage drive:Blessed are the dead, but blessed e'en moreWe soldiers still alive!
Lo! we draw near to London town,The troop train jolts and drags,The friendly poor come forth once moreTo greet us in their rags—The very linen on the lineFlutters and flaunts like flags!
The girls within the factory grimSmile at the broken pane;The sempstress in her lonely roomSighs o'er her task again;The servant shakes her duster forthTo signal our speeding train;
The station names go flitting pastLike old familiar friends;The smoke cloud with the clouds aloftIn wondrous fashion blends,And, lo we enter London town,To where all journeying ends.
I have not wept when I have seenA hundred comrades die;I have not wept when that we shapedThe house where they must lie—But now I hide my head in my handLest my comrades see me cry.
These are the scenes, these the dear souls,'Mid which our lot was cast,To this loved land, if Fate be kind,We shall return at last,For this our stern steel line we hold—Lord, may we hold it fast!
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