The Heroes
By such strange and wonderful ways
God would save His world again.
All our days are holy days,
Starry heroes all our men.
There's naught common or unclean
In this splendid new-made earth:
Hearts uplifted, eyes serene,
Grief goes gayer now than mirth.
Quietly in the sacred night
Tears must fall, O noble tears!
That are shed in the Lords' sight
And are only for His ears.
Who would mourn aloud for sons
Gorgeous in our firmament,
Starry constellations
In the way their fathers went?
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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High Summer
Pinks and syringa in the garden closes
And the sweet privet hedge and golden roses.
The pines hot in the sun, the drone of the bee;
They die in Flanders to keep these for me.
The long sunny days and the still weather,
The cuckoo and the blackbird shouting together,
The lambs calling their mothers out on the lea;
They die in Flanders to keep these for me.
The doors and windows open: South wind blowing
Warm through the clean sweet rooms, on tip-toe going,
Where many sanctities, dear and delightsome be --
They die in Flanders to keep these for me.
Daisies leaping in foam on the green grasses,
The dappled sky and the stream that sings as it passes --
These are bought with a price, a bitter fee --
They die in Flanders to keep these for me.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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The End of the Day
The night darkens fast & the shadows darken,
Clouds & the rain gather about mine house,
Only the wood-dove moans, hearken, O hearken!
The moan of the wood-dove in the rain-wet boughs.
Loneliness & the night! The night is lonely
Star-covered the night takes to a tender breast
Wrapping them in her veil these dark hours only
The weary, the bereaved, the dispossessed.
When will it lighten? Once the night was kindly
Nor all her hours went by leaden & long.
Now in mine house the hours go groping blindly.
After the shiver of dawn, the first bird's song.
Sleep now! The night with wings of splendour swept
Hides heavy eyes from light that they may sleep
Soft & secure, under her gaze so tender
Lest they should wake to weep, should wake to weep.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Wall Between
The wall between is grown so thin
That whoso peers may see
A flutter of rose, a living green
Like new leaves on a tree.
The wall's now gotten many a chink
Where whoso leans may hear
The feet of them who pass to drink
All at a well clear.
The people go, the people flow
T'other side o' the wall
With silken rustle and laughter low
As to a festival.
Come mother and wife and piteous bride,
The wall's nigh broken through;
And there be some the other side
That peep and pry for you.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Test
Love has moods: and I am cold,
Very cold ofttimes to Thee;
Fain to slip from Thy dear hold
To my follies and be free.
Yet I love: Thou knowest all.
I am Thine in heat and chill;
Thou, Thou hast my heart in thrall,
All my life and all my will.
Thou, Immortal Lover, sure
Knowest the way that lovers have,
Now so cold, afraid, unsure,
Now afire with love and brave.
If I loved less it might be
That the way was smoother, less
Of the heavenly joys for me
And the cast-down bitterness.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Great Mercy
Betwixt the saddle and the ground
Was mercy sought and mercy found.
Yea, in the twinkling of an eye,
He cried; and Thou hast heard his cry.
Between the bullet and its mark
Thy face made morning in his dark.
And while the shell sang on its path
Thou hast run, Thou hast run, preventing death.
Thou hast run before and reached the goal,
Gathered to Thee the unhoused soul.
Thou art not bound by Time or Space:
So fast Death runs : Thou hast won the race.
Thou hast said to beaten Death: Go tell
Of victories thou once hadst. All's well!
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Any Mother
'What's the news? Now tell it me.'
'Allenby again advances.'
'No, it is not Allenby
But my boy, straight as a lance is.
'Oh, my boy it is that runs,
Hurls his young and slender body
On the dread death-dealing guns.
Oh, he's down! his head is bloody!'
'Haig's offensive has begun.'
'Say not Haig's nor any other,
Since it is my one sweet son
In the gases' risk and smother.
'He is taken by the throat,
In the bursting flame will quiver,
He the billet for all shot,
He the shell's objective ever.'
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Meetings
As up and down I fare by road and street
The mothers of our men-at-arms I meet
Who die for mine and me,
That we go safe and free,
Sit in the sun, sleep soft and find life sweet.
I have two sons too young to fight, too young,
God grant if my hour comes I may be strong,
And caught in such a strait
May praise God and be great,
Giving my sons to save some woman from wrong!
Oh, mothers of dead heroes, ye I know,
My heart sends you a greeting, soft and low;
Blessed are ye whose sons
Amid the ransomed ones
Throng to the banners of Heaven as white as snow.
Somehow, by some secret and certain sign,
The mothers of the beloved I divine
Who died in my sons' place.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Refuge
I will lift mine eyes to the mountains,
To the mountains whence cometh my aid;
I shall drink of the Mercy's crystal fountains,
And shall not be afraid.
St. Patrick and St. Bride be with me,
And all the saints of the Gael;
The wings of Heaven above and beneath me,
The dead of Inisfail.
The caves of the mountains shall receive me,
I shall lie as at a mother's breast
The white food the King of Heaven shall give me,
And the wine of Heaven for feast.
Where the eagle screams over Nephin,
Where the Reek of Patrick looks on the isles,
li-orn the voices of the world that fret and deafen,
From the evil in her smiles,
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Summons
Straight to his death he went,
A smile on his lips,
All his life's joy unspent,
Into eclipse.
The song of the shell he heard
Cleaving the dark,
As though 'twere the song of a bird,
Linnet or lark.
Why would he go so fast
Out to the dead,
All in a heavenly haste
Not to be stayed?
What did he see afar
That drew him after?
Light from a merry star,
Singing and laughter?
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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