Once I made for you songs, Rondels, triolets, sonnets;
Verse that my love deemed due, Verse that your love found fair.
Now the wide wings of war Hang, like a hawk's, over England, Shadowing meadows and groves;
And the birds and the lovers are mute.
Yet there's a thing to say Before I go into battle, Not now a poet's word But a man's word to his mate:
Dear, if I come back never, Be it your pride that we gave The hope of our hearts, each other, For the sake of the Hope of the World.
1915.
