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 seen My stricken comrades die; I have not wept when we have made The place where they should lie; My heart seemed drowned in tears, but still No 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 moved Outwith the window pane?
But one short day since I had left A land upheaved and rent, Where Spring brings back no bourgeoning, As Nature's force were spent; Yet now I travelled in a train Through the kindly land of Kent!
A kindly land, a pleasant land, As welcome sight to me As after purgatorial pains The Plains of Heaven might be, When the wondrous Goodness that is God Draws a soul from jeopardy.
A pleasant land, a peaceful land Of wooded hill and weald, Where kine stand knee-deep in the grass, And sheep graze in the field; A blessèd land, where a wounded heart Might readily be healed.
A wholesome land, where each white road Leads to a ruddy hearth; Where still is heard the sound of song And the kindly note of mirth; Where the strong man cheerful wakes to toil And the dead sleep sound i' the earth.
I have not wept when I have seen My chosen comrades die; I have not wept while we have digged The 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 home Like passengers of state; My heart is very full, so full It holds no room for hate.
The children climb the five-barred gate And blow us kisses five, The little cripple in his car Waves from the carriage drive: Blessed are the dead, but blessed e'en more We soldiers still alive!
Lo! we draw near to London town, The troop train jolts and drags, The friendly poor come forth once more To greet us in their rags— The very linen on the line Flutters and flaunts like flags!
The girls within the factory grim Smile at the broken pane; The sempstress in her lonely room Sighs o'er her task again; The servant shakes her duster forth To signal our speeding train;
The station names go flitting past Like old familiar friends; The smoke cloud with the clouds aloft In wondrous fashion blends, And, lo we enter London town, To where all journeying ends.
I have not wept when I have seen A hundred comrades die; I have not wept when that we shaped The house where they must lie— But now I hide my head in my hand Lest 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!
_-_illustration_08.png)