Classic Poem

Riez Bailleul in blue tea-time
Called back the Severn lanes, the roads
Where the small ash leaves lie, and floods
Of hawthorn leaves turned with night's rime.
No Severn though, nor great valley clouds . . .

Now, in the thought, comparisons
Go with those here-and-theres and fancy
Sees on the china firelight dancy,
The wall lit where the sofa runs.
A dear light like Sirius or spring sun's.

But the trench thoughts will not go, tomorrow
Up to the line, and no straw laid
Soft for the body, and long nights' dread,
Lightless, all common human sorrow.
Unploughed the grown field once was furrow.

Meanwhile soft azure, and fall's emerald
Lovely the road makes, a softness clings
Of colour and texture of light; there rings
Metal, as it were, in air; and the called
Of twilight, dim stars of the dome, appear.

There's dusk here; west hedgerows show thin;
In billets there's sound of packs reset,
Tea finished; the dixies dried of the wet.
Some walk, some write, and the cards begin.
Stars gather in heaven and the pools drown in.