| George Herbert Clarke, ed. (1873–1953). A Treasury of War Poetry. 1917. |
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| 56. The Pool Rings his Bells |
| | | By Walter de la Mare |
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| COME, Death, I’d have a word with thee; | |
| And thou, poor Innocency; | |
| And Love—a lad with broken wing; | |
| And Pity, too: | |
| The Fool shall sing to you, | 5 |
| As Fools will sing. | |
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| Ay, music hath small sense, | |
| And a tune’s soon told, | |
| And Earth is old, | |
| And my poor wits are dense; | 10 |
| Yet have I secrets,—dark, my dear, | |
| To breathe you all; Come near. | |
| And lest some hideous listener tells, | |
| I’ll ring my bells. | |
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| They’re all at war! | 15 |
| Yes, yes, their bodies go | |
| ’Neath burning sun and icy star | |
| To chaunted songs of woe, | |
| Dragging cold cannon through a mud | |
| Of rain and blood; | 20 |
| The new moon glinting hard on eyes | |
| Wide with insanities! | |
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| Hush!… I use words | |
| I hardly know the meaning of; | |
| And the mute birds | 25 |
| Are glancing at Love! | |
| From out their shade of leaf and flower, | |
| Trembling at treacheries | |
| Which even in noonday cower. | |
| Heed, heed not what I said | 30 |
| Of frenzied hosts of men, | |
| More fools than I, | |
| On envy, hatred fed, | |
| Who kill, and die— | |
| Spake I not plainly, then? | 35 |
| Yet Pity whispered, “Why?” | |
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| Thou silly thing, off to thy daisies go. | |
| Mine was not news for child to know, | |
| And Death—no ears hath. He hath supped where creep | |
| Eyeless worms in hush of sleep; | 40 |
| Yet, when he smiles, the hand he draws | |
| Athwart his grinning jaws | |
| Faintly their thin bones rattle, and … There, there; | |
| Hearken how my bells in the air | |
| Drive away care!… | 45 |
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| Nay, but a dream I had | |
| Of a world all mad. | |
| Not a simple happy mad like me, | |
| Who am mad like an empty scene | |
| Of water and willow tree, | 50 |
| Where the wind hath been; | |
| But that foul Satan-mad, | |
| Who rots in his own head, | |
| And counts the dead, | |
| Not honest one—and two— | 55 |
| But for the ghosts they were, | |
| Brave, faithful, true, | |
| When, head in air, | |
| In Earth’s clear green and blue | |
| Heaven they did share | 60 |
| With Beauty who bade them there…. | |
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| There, now! he goes— | |
| Old Bones; I’ve wearied him. | |
| Ay, and the light cloth dim, | |
| And asleep’s the rose, | 65 |
| And tired Innocence | |
| In dreams is hence…. | |
| Come, Love, my lad, | |
| Nodding that drowsy head, | |
| ’T is time thy prayers were said! | 70 |
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