TILL TWISTON WENT

Till Twiston went, the war still seemed

A far-off thing: a nightmare dreamed,

Some bruit or fable half-believed,

Too hideous to be conceived.

His letter came: the memories throng

Of days that made the friendship strong —

The oar he won, the ties he wore,

His love of china, fairy lore,

( And flappers ); and his honest eyes;

His stammer, his absurdities;

His marmalade, his bitter beer,

And all that made him quaint and dear.

And though we muckle have to do

Yet love must needs come breaking through,

And now and then the office hum

Dies like a mist,... and there will come

An Oxford breakfast scene: the quad

All blue and grey outside — O God —

And there sits Twiston at the feast

Proclaiming he will be a priest!

I see his eyes, his homely neb —

Ring, telephones, and cut the web!

And when it's over, will there be

In his grey house above the Dee

A mug to drain? Will we renew

The dreams of all we hoped to do?

Our Cotswold tramps? And will there still

Be flappers in the surf at Rhyl?

O how I counted on the hour

When he would see the Woolworth Tower,

And how we set our hearts upon

The steep grey walls of Carcassonne!