Poems From London


HARK! for the holy little sisters waken,
Spilling their notes defiantly around,
Eleven times for each the mellow sound,
Into the dust and blood of battle shaken.
Not at the hour, but momently prevailing,
Ringing high courage through a stricken race,
Gathering the city in a calm embrace,
Wounded but undismayed, beyond assailing:
So once they watched a greater Fire raging,
Doom and destruction met with steadfast eyes;
And when peace blossoms slowly in the skies
Behold, a second Wren for their assuaging.

FOR 1941

UP from the sorrowful stubble, bare as defeat,
Up through the manifold darkness of night in retreat,
Rises the lark in his freedom, beating his wings,
Tossed in the shaft of the storm, foolhardy he sings.
Foolhardy he sings in the darkness, lifting his sight
To a thread stretching silver above him, essence of light;
For the thread ever widens to glory, dawning begun:
Uprises the lark in his freedom, up to the sun.