<html xmlns:tei="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><body><h1 align="" class="head">Con Amore</h1><div class="stanza"><p class="line">IF but my love were as my love should be.</p><p class="line">And pen a fitting scribe unto my heart,</p><p class="line">Even then your praise I could not worthily</p><p class="line">In ringing rime chime forth: no earthly art</p><p class="line">Could frame the incommunicable worth</p><p class="line">That is all yours, purchased with many tears,</p><p class="line">And patient bravery, and happiness of earth</p><p class="line">Renounced to buy your children's future years.</p><p class="line">Then on the little mound your toil made good</p><p class="line">Against a merciless tide of circumstance</p><p class="line">I'll stand, taking the breath of gratitude</p><p class="line">To mind and heart their power to enhance.</p><p class="line">That I may reach the ear of future times</p><p class="line">And hint my Mother's worth in these poor</p><p class="line">rimes.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">The world must know your greatness, little Mother!</p><p class="line">I will not have it so to be confined</p><p class="line">That it should dwell but in the heart of my brother,</p><p class="line">My sister's and mine own, and in our mind</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">Invoke respect, tongue-tied however just.</p><p class="line">O Heart! turn lyre within me! You are stirred</p><p class="line">At her great contemplation, then you must</p><p class="line">Shake into song, though be it as a bird</p><p class="line">Whose artless iteration of his theme</p><p class="line">Makes music without skill, by virtue of</p><p class="line">The cherished sweetness of the Spring, his dream</p><p class="line">Through bitter Winter. Sing but of her love.</p><p class="line">Of her exceeding love, O Heart, then you</p><p class="line">May render somewhat of the debt her due.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">So great your love is. Mother, it may be</p><p class="line">Nor held by words nor compassed by my rime;</p><p class="line">It has o'erwhelmed the wide, disparting sea,</p><p class="line">It has assaulted battlemented Time</p><p class="line">To keep your guardian spirit round me when</p><p class="line">Danger affronted or but lay in lurk—</p><p class="line">Danger of death in this mad war of men.</p><p class="line">Danger of sin in Life's worse war of work</p><p class="line">And play, shadow and light, quick tears, brief joys:</p><p class="line">You knew Life's sweetness when you gave me birth</p><p class="line">And shared my infant bliss in stingless to)s,</p><p class="line">Alas! that since then joy has been in dearth</p><p class="line">And grief has loosed so many of those tears</p><p class="line">Which grew your Faith and Love beyond the</p><p class="line">years.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">I have been exiled now for two long years,</p><p class="line">Known many dangers, many pleasant places;</p><p class="line">I have been near to Death just when he rears</p><p class="line">With terrible intent, and gazed upon the faces</p><p class="line">Of stricken comrades after his dread leap;</p><p class="line">In eastern deserts I have worshipped beauty</p><p class="line">Austerely still, where Death and Life to sleep.</p><p class="line">And Home is a strange dream, and stranger</p><p class="line">"Duty";</p><p class="line">Yet have your mother-hands reached out always</p><p class="line">With some sweet draught for Mem'ry; your</p><p class="line">pitying</p><p class="line">Softened the couch of hardships; darkest days</p><p class="line">Your brightest words did light who knew the sting</p><p class="line">Of this cruel war most cruelly deep at heart—</p><p class="line">Your love to sing then, what an Angel's art!</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">Stern War has caused my life's frail barque to ride</p><p class="line">Some perilous seas of Death, made me warm friends</p><p class="line">With cold Privation, and like Dante's guide,</p><p class="line">Down doleful, dayless ways where this life ends</p><p class="line">And deeds, desires, are woven in hidden looms</p><p class="line">That pattern human fate, me has he led</p><p class="line">With hand relentless on my hand. 'Mid tombs</p><p class="line">My dragging and his careless feet did treadj</p><p class="line">Echoing fear about my heart, and then.</p><p class="line">With his contempt content, my hand he freed</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">And left me breathing still the air of men</p><p class="line">On this sweet earth. Yet in my daily creed</p><p class="line">Shall be deep thanks to War that touched my eyes</p><p class="line">With sight to see in you my priceless prize.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">Return is sweet to one who hath been far</p><p class="line">On pilgrimage or war's stern business, and</p><p class="line">Hath oft at evening watched the evening star</p><p class="line">Beckon to him beyond the desert sand.</p><p class="line">Whispering of those green lands of memory's home,</p><p class="line">Fertile with bliss that was and is to be,</p><p class="line">Until, no more inconstantly to roam</p><p class="line">With a sweet pain at heart then voweth he.</p><p class="line">But doubly happy in my happiness</p><p class="line">Am I who to anticipate made glad</p><p class="line">Drear days of trial, and find each cheerful guess</p><p class="line">So true, I gained such glad days from such sad:</p><p class="line">You are my home, and I find home confirm</p><p class="line">The hopes most glad of my sad exile-term.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">And yet if I unto my verse would wed</p><p class="line">Fair Truth, who stands with grave unfaltering gaze,</p><p class="line">Reading where late my labouring pen hath sped</p><p class="line">In halting periods o'er my checkered days.</p><p class="line">Let me not write so of the present jo}-</p><p class="line">Of my home-coming that one could infer</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">A happiness complete, without alloy</p><p class="line">Of my sad Knowledge, Wisdom's minister.</p><p class="line">Do I not know the bitter tinge to Life</p><p class="line">Which Fate hath in your chaliced mother-heart</p><p class="line">Mixed with maternal sweetness—the sharp knife</p><p class="line">That stabs your peace—the cloud that doth impart</p><p class="line">A darkness to each day—a child's affliction,</p><p class="line">*Bounding your every joy with stern restriction?</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">True, true it is I know your suffering, dear.</p><p class="line">And that my knowledge never can attain</p><p class="line">To utter understanding nor come near</p><p class="line">With Sympathy your heights of holy pain.</p><p class="line">Yet to be comforted you'll not refuse,</p><p class="line">Knowing your Mother's heart can mine relieve;</p><p class="line">So take this comfort: that your son will use</p><p class="line">The gifts you gave him homage due to give</p><p class="line">Unto your humble greatness—never pray</p><p class="line">For richer boon than grace to sow these seeds</p><p class="line">Of future fame, to tell a later day</p><p class="line">All the eternal splendour of your deeds.</p><p class="line">Thus may I crown a life of little worth</p><p class="line">With the rich praise of her who gave me birth.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">These gifts you gave on God's behalf, I wonder</p><p class="line">How they are mine above all my deserving—</p><p class="line">My life's path cluttered is with many a blunder</p><p class="line">Nor Duty-guided in a course unswerving,</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">As lies your own in beauteous symmetry</p><p class="line">Behind, beyond the rise of the distant hill</p><p class="line">Where finds the daylight first all that of me</p><p class="line">Does make the man, your son, heart, mind and will.</p><p class="line">Then how must I, with firm-held reins, with bit</p><p class="line">Drawn hard, hold in my spirited arrogance.</p><p class="line">The lust of youth, the usufruct of it.</p><p class="line">The power impetuous, seeking ever a chance</p><p class="line">To break away into loose licence, when</p><p class="line">'Tis needed so, to praise you, by my pen!</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">There is not beauty enough in the whole world—</p><p class="line">Could it be brought obedient to my will—</p><p class="line">No hues of budding dawn, no colours furled</p><p class="line">After rich sunset, in the west, dim, still;</p><p class="line">No melodies of brooks or birds, no tunes</p><p class="line">Which breezes wake among green leaves that lay</p><p class="line">Upon some summer's breathing breast—nor runes</p><p class="line">Around a lonely lake which ripples play.</p><p class="line">Falling on quiet shores—nor voice of shimmering</p><p class="line">ocean</p><p class="line">Whose anger sleepeth. Nay on all the earth</p><p class="line">There is no beauty stirring sweet emotion</p><p class="line">To paint, to sing, to monument thy worth:—</p><p class="line">Nothing that can outbid in all of this</p><p class="line">My pain-fraught joy feeling thy prideful kis?.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">Mother! toward you my gratitude now goes</p><p class="line">As to a goddess of some ancient fane.</p><p class="line">Worshipped for fruitful blessings, incense rose,</p><p class="line">While the stone altar held the dove just slain</p><p class="line">In simple, penitential sacrifice.</p><p class="line">And the great congregation, humbled, bowed,</p><p class="line">Acknowledged thus the wondrous gifts whose price</p><p class="line">They could not pay but in surrender proud</p><p class="line">To gratitude's humility.—But you</p><p class="line">Claim nothing slain in your cult, except</p><p class="line">What I would less than value—all the true,</p><p class="line">Enduring things in me have upward leapt.</p><p class="line">Striving to do your honour. So do I</p><p class="line">In humble pride my voice lift heaven-high.</p></div><p>FRANCE, Sept., 1917.</p></body></html> · Great War