FROM A DIARY, JANUARY 1918

JOY have I had of life this vigorous day

Since sunrise when I took the wealden way,

And my fair country as I rapid strode

Lay round the turn of the familiar road

In mists diaphanous as seas in foam.

And all the orchards cried me welcome home.

I drove the spade that turned the heavy loam,

Bending the winter to the needs of spring,

The soft air winnowing

The thistledown that blew along the hedge.

A little moorhen rippled in the sedge;

A distant sheep-dog barked; the day was still,

For summer’ s ghost in winter lay upon the hill.

I worked in peace; an aeroplane above

Crooned through the heaven coloured like a dove.

Within the house I lit a fire

And coaxed the friendly kettle on to boil.

My boots were heavy with the wealden soil,

My hunger eager from the glow of toil.

Fresh bread had I; brown eggs; a little meat;

Clear water, and an apple sweet.

Freedom I drank for my delirious wine,

And Shelley gave me company divine.

What more could heart desire?

And when the orange of the sunset burned,

I laid aside my tools and townward turned,

Seeing across the uplands of the Weald

The ploughteams straining on the half-brown field.

I sang aloud; my limbs were rich with health,

As brooding winter rich with summer’ s wealth.