A Prayer { For Those Who Shall Return}
LORD, when they come back again
From the dreadful battlefield
To the common ways of men,
Be Thy mercy, Lord, revealed!
Make them to forget the dread
Fields of dying and the dead!
Let them go unhaunted, Lord,
By the sights that they have seen:
Guard their dreams from shell and sword;
Lead them by the pastures green,
That they wander all night long
In the fields where they were young.
Grant no charnel horrors slip
'Twixt them and their child's soft face.
Breast to breast and lip to lip,
Let the lovers meet, embrace!
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Father
Captain Patrick Tobin, R.D.F. Suvla, August 15th, 1915
Ever his eyes are fixed on a glorious sight.
A boy is leading, calls his men to come on:
Light as a deer he leaps, slender and bright,
Up the hill, irresistible: it is won!
Ever he sees the boy against the sky,
A slender Victory, light on his golden head.
Hardly the down on his lip he hath leaped so high,
His name is writ among the undying Dead.
Captain at one-and-twenty! Much was to come,
Great things yet to be done, heights to be scaled;
Love and comradeship, all fruition of bloom.
He has attained to the highest. Not he who failed!
The mother weeps her boy who comes not again.
The Father sees him, splendid and laughing still,
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Dead- A Prisoner
He died the loneliest death of all,
Amid his foes he died.
But Someone's leaped the outer wall
And Someone's come inside,
And he has gotten a golden key
To set the lonesome prisoner free.
It was not Peter with the keys,
The heavenly janitor,
Who has passed them like a rushing breeze,
The gaolers at the door,
And to His bosom as a bed
Has taken the unmothered head.
A great light in the prison shone
That made the people blind:
Rise up, rise up, new-ransomed one,
And taste the sun and wind:
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Doves
The house where I was born,
Where I was young and gay,
Grows old amid its corn,
Amid its scented hay.
Moan of the cushat dove,
In silence rich and deep;
The old head I love
Nods to its quiet sleep.
Where once were nine and ten
Now two keep house together;
The doves moan and complain
All day in the still weather.
What wind, bitter and great,
Has swept the country's face,
Altered, made desolate
The heart-remembered place ?
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Pilgrims To The East
This Christmas-time my son will come,
God willing, to the Holy Place
And by the manger's little room
Will bend his knee and bow his face,
Eager, with shepherds and with kings,
For to behold the Holy Things.
The very child I made will see,
God willing, little Bethlehem,
The Garden of the Agony,
Olivet and Jerusalem
And climb to Calvary's sacred hill --
Ah, but the world is Calvary still!
My own son's feet the dust shall press,
God willing, where the Holy Feet
Passed on His Father's business:
And some high room above the street
Shall stir a memory of that Feast
Where He himself was Eucharist.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Lament
To the Immortal Tenth (Irish) Division
Suvla, name of bitterness,
Myrrh and aloes in the mouth,
Salt as Dead Sea water is!
All that splendour, all that youth,
All that nobleness! Oh, waste
Of the dearest, loveliest!
Sands of Suvla, scarlet-dyed,
Where the Cross is down in shame
And the Crescent flaunts its pride!
Was it for this they went aflame,
The young shining sons we nursed,
For the fire and the fierce thirst?
Suvla, that is holy ground
Sown so thick with martyr's seed:
There's no Christ now, but Mahound,
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Dear Brown Head
James Cecil Johnston. Suvla. August 9th, 1915
Only an hour ago we were fearful for you,
Knowing the death and the darkness behind and before you.
Years ago it might be since we were afraid.
Nothing can harm you now, O dear brown head!
You have come into port with a favouring wind;
We are tossing yet in the seas unkind.
All around you the light and glory are shed;
We are in darkness without you, dear brown head!
Heart and soul of a boy, simple and merry,
Never now to grow old, never be weary.
Light in the Land of the Young is your springing tread.
Long and heavy the road to you, dear brown head!
The House of God is full in the August days --
Full of the young coming home by the bitter ways.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Wings In The Night
Now in the soft spring midnight
There's rush of wings and whirr,
Birds flying softly, swiftly;
The night's a-flutter, a-stir.
Home by the bitter seas,
They have sped home together.
So glad to be coming home
To the grey hills, the grey weather.
Calling and calling softly
One lights by the window-pane:
The rook, weary with building,
Turns to his sleep again.
Ere ever the moor-hens wake
And the wild duck come in,
The birds are about the house
With a long call and thin.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Trust
To you, O Sœr Therèse of Lisieux,
Fresh as a morning rose in morning dew,
We give our men in keeping:
Watch them waking, watch them sleeping.
Lest our hearts should break, O keep trust and be true!
The old saints are beset with many prayers;
The knees of centuries have worn their stairs.
But you, O little nun,
Heaven's youngest, littlest one,
You are strong to lift our burdens and our cares.
Your childish hands have roses pink and pale
That climb the trellises of Heaven and trail.
Shake your roses down before them,
Your dear heart be sorry for them,
Keep them safe within the shadow of your veil.
You lift hands for France -- O lift them heaven-high,
For those who fight with France, who bleed and die.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Broken Soldier
The broken soldier sings and whistles day to dark;
He's but the remnant of a man, maimed and half-blind,
But the soul they could not harm goes singing like the lark,
Like the incarnate Joy that will not be confined.
The Lady at the Hall has given him a light task,
He works in the gardens as busy as a bee;
One hand is but a stump and his face a pitted mask;
The gay soul goes singing like a bird set free.
Whistling and singing like a linnet on wings;
The others stop to listen, leaning on the spade,
Whole men and comely, they fret at little things.
The soul of him's singing like a thrush in a glade.
Hither and thither, hopping, like Robin on the grass,
The soul in the broken man is beautiful and brave;
And while he weeds the pansies and the bright hours pass
The bird caught in the cage whistles its joyous stave.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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