20 
Under the high sky 
Where the great cloud towers 
Above the tranquil downs 
And the tranquil towns. 
VIII. 
And the corks pop 
And the wines of France 
Bring in radiance ; 
And spice from the tropics 
Flavours fowl from the Steppes 
And meat from the States 
And the talk buzzes on like bees round the skeps 
And the potentates 
Of the mmes and the docks 
Drink delicate hocks. . . . 
Ah, proud and generous civilisation. ... 
IX. 
For me, going out to France, 
Is like the exhaustion of dawn 
After a dance. . . . 
You have rushed around to get your money, 
To get your revolver, complete your equipment, 
You have had your moments. Sweeter— ah, sweeter than 
honey, 
You have got your valise all ready for shipment : 
You have gone to confession and wangled your blessing, 
You have bought your air-pillow 
And sewn in your coat 
A pocket to hold your first field dressing 
And you've paid the leech who bled you, the vampire. . . . 
And you've been to the Theatre and the Empire 
And you've bidden good-bye to the band and the goat. . . . 
And.'like a ship that floats free of her berth 
There's nothing that holds you now to the earth 
And you're near enough to a yawn. • • • 
" Good luck " and " Good-bye," it has been, and " So long 
old chap," 
" Cheerio : you'U be back in a month." " You'll have driven 
the Huns off the map." 
And one little pressure of the hand 
From the thing you love next to the love of the land 
Since you leave her out of love of your land. . . . 
And that little, long, gentle and eloquent pressure 
Shall go with you under the wine of the shells 
Into the mire and the stress. 
Into the seven hundred hells 
Until you come down on your stretcher 
To the CCS. ... 
And back to Blighty again — 
Or until you go under the sod. 
But, in the i.io train, 
Running between the green and the grain. 
Something like the peace of God 
Descended, over the hum and the drone 
Of the wheels and the wine and the buzz of the talk 
And one thought : 
" In two days' time we enter the Unknown 
And this is what we die for ! " 
And thro' the "square 
Land & Water 
February 28, 191 8 
Of glass 
At my elbow, as limpid as air, 
I watched our England pass. . . . 
The great downs moving slowly. 
Far away, , 
The farmsteads quiet and lonely, 
Passing away ; 
The fields newly movm 
With the swathes of hay. 
And the wheat just beginning to brown, 
Whirling away. . . . 
And I thought : 
" In two days' time we enter the Unknown 
But this is what we die for. ... As we ought. . . ." 
For it is for the sake of the wolds and the wealds 
That we die. 
And for the sake of the quiet fields, 
And the path thro' the stackyard gate. . . . 
That these may be inviolate, 
And know no tread save those of the herds and the hinds 
And that the South-west winds 
Blow on no forehead save of those that toil 
On the suave and hallowed soil 
And that deep peace may rest 
Upon its quiet breast. . . . 
It is because our land is beautiful and green and comely. 
Because our farms are quiet and thatched and homely, 
Because the trout stream dimples by the willow, 
Because the water lilies float upon the ponds 
And on Eston Hill the delicate, curving fronds 
Of the bracken put forth where the white clouds are flying, 
That we shall endure the swift, sharp torture of dying 
Or the' humiliation of not dying 
Where the gascloud wanders 
Over the fields of Flanders 
Or the sun squanders his radiance 
And the midgets dance 
Their day-long life away 
Above the green and grey 
Of the fields of France. 
And maybe we shall never again 
Plod through the mire and the rain of our winter gloaming. 
And maybe we shall never again 
See the long, white, foaming 
Breakers pour up our strand. 
But we have been borne across this land 
And we have felt this spell. ... 
And, for the rest, 
L'Envoi. 
What is love of one's land ? 
Ah, we know very well. 
It is something that sleeps for a year, for a day. 
For a month, something that keeps 
Very hidden and quiet and still 
And then takes 
The quiet heart like a wave, 
The quiet brain like a spell. 
The quiet will 
Like a tornado, and that shakes , 
The whole being and soul ; 
Aye, the whole of the soul. 
The Roads of France 
By C. R. W. Nevinson, Official Artist at the Front 
