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So sang the stars. That night our love
Burn’d at its holiest;
For aught we knew the same might prove
Our last in the nest.
But from the bed my passion pled,
O God, let us be!
If woman’s anguish her bestead,
Then forsake not me!

vii

I dare not trace that watching space
Of days, too short, too long–
Too long to wear a patient face,
Too short to wear a strong.
I us’d to think I’d have him choose
His duty and begone;
And then, No, no, I dare not lose
Him ere he take his son!

Too long, too short the days to wait,
To plan and think and dread;
And happy we whose poor estate
Claims our work for our bread.
Each day I went to scour and scrub
As my mother us’d,
Or stood before the washing-tub
Where the linen sluiced.

And so my love with careful hand
And careful eye
Led his white flock about the land;
And I must sigh,
“There’s no rebelling in a poor man’s dwelling,
The roof stoops to the blast;
And no heart-swelling meets God’s compelling,
And what is cast is cast!”

viii

But as the tide crawls to his full
Without your knowing,
Invading rock and filling pool,
Endlessly flowing;
Lo, while you sit and look at it,
Idle, little thinking,
The flood is brimming at your feet,
Lipping there and winking–

The very same the Great War grew;
Like a flowing tide
It spread its channels thro’ and thro’
The quiet countryside.
One day you’d stop: a poster up,
And Lord, how it glared!
The next there’d be a very crop,
And not a body stared.

And then the lorries flung along
By ones and twos, and then
In snaky line some twenty strong,
Full of shouting men.
They made me blench with noise and stench,
But more, I do believe,
To know them gaining inch by inch
The earth whereby we live.

So faded fast the painted past
Beneath the mist of war;
One could not think life had been cast
In sweet lines before.
There was no list in that red mist
For love or wholesome breath,
But making rage our staple grist
We ground the dust of death.

Our men held talk among themselves,
But said little to we;
And soon they went by tens and twelves
Soldiers to be.
I knew how ‘twould be from the first,
I think my heart could tell;
I loved a man who never durst
Not do well.

ix

How young, how gay they marcht away,
All our village boys!
Leaving us women here to pray,
Drowning with their noise
Misdoubt and eager mother-love,
Hungry on the watch,
As if they went to race and shove
In a football match.

But my love chose in soberness
Another way, his own;
And God I bless that my distress
Came suddenly down.
A swift November night was falling
In a windless air;
I heard him indoors, heard him calling,
And went, and he was there.

x

He stood still, and his gaze
Was far off, and slow
And quiet the words he says:
“Nancy, I must go.”

In my still heart’s deep
I gloried in the trust
He handed me to keep,
In his quiet “I must.”

No more we said that night,
But sat in the gloom;
We sat without candle-light
In our little room.

Handfast, like girl and boy,
There we sat on,
Hoarding our store of joy
Against he were gone.