Classic Poem

Outside the young frost crisps the grass
And bends the narrow willow boughs
And flecks the dyke with little spears of ice;
The huge moon, yellow and blotched,
Like the face of a six days' corpse,
Stares hideously over the barren wood.

In the silence, the deep pool-like silence,
Untroubled by crash of guns or tramp of men,
I sit alone in a small Belgian house
And stare against the moon and feel
Silence like a slow wave of the outer sea
Drive over and through me,
Purging out bitterness, effacing miseries.

I have what I yearned for—
The chance to live my life out to the end.
And it is a great joy to sit here quietly and think
That soon I shall return to her and say:
“Now it is a free man that kisses you.”
There will be strange meetings in cities for me,
The hush of summer in English gardens,
The glitter of spring in Italy,
The old cafés in Paris.

And I shall have books again,
Long quiet evenings by the tranquil lamp,
Or wild gaiety with “my own sort”—
And always there will be her love,
Her eyes holding me dumb,
Her mouth drawing the blood to my lips.

And yet and yet
I am still not free from bitterness,
For as I sit here thinking so tenderly of her,
Maybe, over there across the Channel,
Her eyes smile at another man
As they smiled at me,
And her red mouth stabs him to passion
As it stabbed me.
Is any woman both beautiful and loyal?

I think also that I am too restless
For the old life,
Too contemptuous of narrow shoulders
To sit again with the café-chatterers,
Too sick at heart with overmuch slaughter
To dream quietly over books,
Too impatient of lies to cajole
Even my scanty pittance from the money-vultures.

Perhaps, then, this is my happiest moment,
Here in this cold little Belgian house,
Remembering harsh years past,
Plotting gold years to come,
Trusting so blithely in a woman's faith;
In the quiet night,
In the silence.