Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, BACK TO LONDON: A POEM OF LEAVE, by JOSEPH JOHNSTON LEE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

BACK TO LONDON: A POEM OF LEAVE, by                    
First Line: I have not wept when I have seen
Last Line: Lord, may we hold it fast!
Subject(s): London; Soldiers' Writings; World War I; First World War


I HAVE not wept when I have seen
My stricken comrades die;
I have not wept when we have made
The place where they should lie;
My heart seemed drowned in tears, but still
No tear came to my eye.

There is a time to weep, saith One,
A season to refrain;
How should it ope, this fount of tears,
While I sat in the train,
So that all blurred the landscape moved
Out with the window-pane?

But one short day since I had left
A land upheaved and rent,
Where Spring brings back no bourgeoning,
As Nature's force were spent;
Yet now I travelled in a train
Thro' the kindly land of Kent!

A kindly land, a pleasant land,
As welcome sight to me
As after purgatorial pains
The Plains of Heaven might be,
When the wondrous Goodness that is God
Draws a soul from jeopardy.

A pleasant land, a peaceful land
Of wooded hill and weald,
Where kine stand knee-deep in the grass,
And sheep graze in the field;
A blesséd land, where a wounded heart
Might readily be healed.

A wholesome land, where each white road
Leads to a ruddy hearth;
Where still is heard the sound of song
And the kindly note of mirth;
Where the strong man cheerful wakes to toil
And the dead sleep sound i' the earth.

I have not wept when I have seen
My chosen comrades die;
I have not wept while we have digged
The grave where they should lie;
But now I lay my head in my hand
Lest my comrades see me cry.

The little children, two by two,
Stand on the five-barred gate,
And wave their hands to waft us home
Like passengers of state;
My heart is very full, so full
It holds no room for hate.

The children climb the five-barred gate
And blow us kisses five,
The little cripple in his car
Waves from the carriage drive:
Blest are the dead, but blest e'en more
We soldiers still alive!

Lo! we draw near to London town,
The troop-train jolts and drags,
The friendly poor come forth once more
To greet us in their rags—
The very linen on the line
Flutters and flaunts like flags!

The girls within the factory grim
Smile at the broken pane;
The seamstress in her lonely room
Sighs o'er her task again;
The servant shakes her duster forth
To signal our speeding train;

The station names go flitting past
Like old familiar friends;
The smoke cloud with the clouds aloft
In wondrous fashion blends,
And, lo! we enter London town,
To where all journeying ends.

I have not wept when I have seen
A hundred comrades die;
I have not wept when that we shaped
The house where they must lie—
But now I hide my head in my hand
Lest my comrades see me cry.

These are the scenes, these the dear souls,
'Mid which our lot was cast,
To this loved land, if Fate be kind,
We shall return at last,
For this our stern steel line we hold—
Lord, may we hold it fast!





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