V

Outside; and a mob hailing cabs, besieging the station,

Sticks, overcoats, scarves, bowler hats, intensified faces,

Rushes, apologies, voices: “Simpson's at seven,”

“Hallo, Jim,” “See you next term,” “I've just seen old Peter.”

They go to their homes, to catch trains, all over the city,

All over England; or, many, to make a good night of it,

Eat oysters, drink more than usual, dispute of the match.

For the match is all over, and what, being done, does it matter?

What happened last year? I was here; I should know, but I do n't.

Next year there will be another, with another result,

Just such another crowd, just as excited.

And after next year, for a year and a year and a year,

Till customs have changed and things crumbled and all this strife

Is a dim word from the past. Why, even to-night,

When the last door has been locked, the last groundsman will go,

Leaving that field which was conquered and full of men,

With darkened houses around, void and awake,

Silently talking to the silent travelling moon:

“The day passed. They have gone again. They will die.”

To-night in the moon the neighbouring roofs will lie

Lonely and still, all of their dwellers in bed;

The phantom stands will glisten, the goal-posts rise

Slanting their shadows across the grass, as calm

As though they had never challenged an eager swarm,

Or any ball had made their crossbars quiver.

Clouds will pass, and the city's murmur fade,

And the open field await its destiny

Of transient invaders coming and going.

What was the point of it? Why did the heart leap high

Putting reason back, to watch that fugitive play?

Why not? We must all distract ourselves with toys.

Not a brick nor a heap remains, the more durable product

Of all that; effort and pain. Yet, sooner or later,

As much may be said of any human game,

War, politics, art, building, planting and ploughing,

The explorer's freezing, the astronomer's searching of stars,

The philosopher's fight through the thickening webs of thought,

And the writing of poems: a hand, a stir and a sinking.

And so, no more, of the general game of the Race,

That cannot know of its origin or its end,

But strives, for their own sake, its courage and skill

To increase, till Frost or a Flying Flame calls “Time!”

I have seen this day men in the beauty of movement,

A gallant jaw set, the form of a hero that flew,

Cunning, a selfless flinging of self in the fray,

Strength, compassion, control, the obeying of laws,

Victory, and a struggle against defeat.

I think that the Power that gave us the bodies we have,

Can only be praised by our use of the things He gave,

That we are not here to turn our backs to the sun,

Or to scorn the delight of our limbs. And for those who have eyes

The beauty of this is the same as the beauty of flowers,

And of eagles and lions and mountains and oceans and stars,

And I care not, but rather am glad that the thought will recur

That in Egypt the muscles moved under the shining skins

As here, and in Greece where Olympian champions died,

And in isles long ago, where never a record was kept.

And now I'll go home, and open a bottle of port,

And think upon beauty and God and the wonder of love,

That laughs at the shadow of Death, and my vanished youth,

And the throbbing heart that beats its own drum to the grave,

Returning absurdly again to the fact that we won,

Content to let darkness deepen, and stars shine.