King's Cross Station · The Human Tree · To Them That Mourn

King's Cross Station

This circled cosmos whereof man is god
  Has suns and stars of green and gold and red,
And cloudlands of great smoke, that range o'er range
  Far floating, hide its iron heavens o'erhead.

God! shall we ever honour what we are,
   And see one moment ere the age expire,
The vision of man shouting and erect,
   Whirled by the shrieking steeds of flood and fire?

Or must Fate act the same grey farce again,
  And wait, till one, amid Time's wrecks and scars,
Speaks to a ruin here, 'What poet-race
  Shot such cyclopean arches at the stars?'

The Human Tree

Many have Earth's lovers been,
Tried in seas and wars, I ween;
Yet the mightiest have I seen:
  Yea, the best saw I.
One that in a field alone
Stood up stiller than a stone
Lest a moth should fly.

Birds had nested in his hair,
On his shoon were mosses rare.
Insect empires flourished there,
  Worms in ancient wars;
But his eyes burn like a glass,
Hearing a great sea of grass
  Roar towards the stars.

From, them to the human tree
Rose a cry continually,
'Thou art still, our Father, we
  Fain would have thee nod.
Make the skies as blood below thee,
Though thou slay us, we shall know thee.
  Answer us, O God!

'Show thine ancient flame and thunder,
Split the stillness once asunder,
Lest we whisper, lest we wonder
  Art thou there at all?'
But I saw him there alone,
Standing stiller than a stone
  Lest a moth should fall.

To Them That Mourn

(W.E.G., May 1898)

Lift up your heads: in life, in death,
  God knoweth his head was high.
Quit we the coward's broken breath
  Who watched a strong man die.

If we must say, 'No more his peer
  Cometh; the flag is furled.'
Stand not too near him, lest he hear
  That slander on the world.

The good green earth he loved and trod
  Is still, with many a scar,
Writ in the chronicles of God,
  A giant-bearing star.

He fell: but Britain's banner swings
  Above his sunken crown.
Black death shall have his toll of kings
  Before that cross goes down.

Once more shall move with mighty things
  His house of ancient tale,
Where kings whose hands were kissed of kings
  Went in: and came out pale.

O young ones of a darker day,
  In art's wan colours clad,
Whose very love and hate are grey—
  Whose very sin is sad.

Pass on: one agony long-drawn
  Was merrier than your mirth,
When hand-in-hand came death and dawn,
  And spring was on the earth.