Under the shadow of a hawthorn brake, Where bluebells draw the sky down to the wood, Where, 'mid brown leaves, the primroses awake And hidden violets smell of solitude;
Beneath green leaves bright-fluttered by the wing Of fleeting, beautiful, immortal Spring, I should have said, "I love you," and your eyes Have said, "I, too . . . " The gods saw otherwise.
For this is winter, and the London streets Are full of soldiers from that far, fierce fray Where life knows death, and where poor glory meets Full-face with shame, and weeps and turns away.
And in the broken, trampled foreign wood Is horror, and the terrible scent of blood, And love shines tremulous, like a drowning star, Under the shadow of the wings of war.
1916.
