Before Winter

THE wind is crying in the night, Like a lost child; The waves break wonderful and white And wild. The drenched sea-poppies swoon along The drenched sea-wall, And there’s an end of summer and of song— An end of all.

The fingers of the tortured boughs Gripped by the blast Clutch at the windows of your house Closed fast. And the lost child of love, despair, Cries in the night, Remembering how once those windows were Open and bright.

THE VAULT AFTER SEDGMOOR

YOU need not call at the Inn; I have ordered my bed: Fair linen sheets therein And a tester of lead. No musty fusty scents Such as inn chambers keep, But tapestried with content And hung with sleep.

My Inn door bears no bar Set up against fear. The guests have journeyed far, They are glad to be here. Where the damp arch curves up grey, Long, long shall we lie; Good King’s men all are they, A King’s man I.

Old Giles, in his stone asleep, Fought at Poictiers. Piers Ralph and Roger keep The spoil of their fighting years. I shall lie with my folk at last In a quiet bed; I shall dream of the sword held fast In a round-capped head.

Good tale of men all told My Inn affords; And their hands peace shall hold That once held swords. And we who rode and ran On many a loyal quest Shall find the goal of man— A bed, and rest.

We shall not stand to the toast Of Love or King; We be all too tired to boast About anything. We be dumb that did jest and sing; We rest who laboured and warred . . . Shout once, shout once for the King. Shout once for the sword!