Time's Laughingstocks, and Other Verses

From the opening

AS I lay awake at night-time In an ancient country barrack known to ancient cannoneers, And recalled the hopes that heralded each seeming brave and bright time Of my primal purple years,

Much it haunted me that, nigh there, I had borne my bitterest loss—when One who went, came not again; In a joyless hour of discord, in a joyless-hued July there— A July just such as then.

And as thus I brooded longer, With my faint eyes on the feeble square of wan-lit window frame, A quick conviction sprung within me, grew, and grew yet stronger, That the month-night was the same,

Too, as that which saw her leave me On the rugged ridge of Waterstone, the peewits plaining round; And a lapsing twenty years had ruled that—as it were to grieve me— I should near the once-loved ground.

Though but now a war-worn stranger Chance had quartered here, I rose up and descended to the yard. All was soundless, save the troopers’ horses tossing at the manger, And the sentry keeping guard.

Through the gateway I betook me Down the High Street and beyond the lamps, across the battered bridge, Till the country darkness clasped me and the friendly shine forsook me, And I bore towards the Ridge,

With a dim unowned emotion Saying softly: “Small my reason, now at midnight, to be here . . . Yet a sleepless swain of fifty with a brief romantic notion May retrace a track so dear.”

Thus I walked with thoughts half-uttered Up the lane I knew so well, the grey, gaunt, lonely Lane of Slyre; And at whiles behind me, far at sea, a sullen thunder muttered As I mounted high and higher.

Till, the upper roadway quitting, I adventured on the open drouthy downland thinly grassed, While the spry white scuts of conies flashed before me, earthward flitting, And an arid wind went past.

A short sample. Read the whole book

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