The Great War

from Poems of the Great War, an electronic edition

The Wykhamist

In the wake of the yellow sunset one pale star

Hangs over the darkening city's purple haze.

An errand-boy in the street beneath me plays

On a penny whistle. Very faint and far

Comes the scroop of tortured gear on a battered car.

A hyacinth nods pallid blooms on the window sill,

Swayed by the tiny wind. St. Catherine's Hill

Is a place of mystery, a land of dreams.

The tramp of soldiers, barrack-marching, seems

A thing remote, untouched by fate or time.

...A year ago you heard Cathedral's chime,

You hurried up to books -- a year ago;

-- Shouted for "Houses" in New Field below.

...You... "died of wounds"... they told me

...yet your feet

Pass with the others down the twilit street.