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Flowers by the Wayside: Stephen's Poems collected in Full

Stephen Haggard's works are a haunting and yet alluringly beautiful reminder of the time during the war. Originally collected by his wife, Morna and his friend, fellow poet and writer, Christopher Hassall, here below you will find them lovingly collected by date and perserved by me: Faith Jacobs.

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Flowers By the Wayside: The Collected poems of Stephen A. Hubert Haggard: Edited by date by Faith Jacobs

Collected from the Unpublished Poems of Stephen Haggard and I'll go to bed at noon





The Poems of Stephen A. Hubert Haggard:
Complete edition
Collected & Edited by Faith Jacobs
***
In Memory of Stephen A. Hubert Haggard, whom went to bed at noon on the 25th, February of 1943, his words left behind, his poems beautiful and alluring, a haunting and yet powerful testament to the human spirit in times of war and tribulation.
-Faith Jacobs 2024
***
‘SEPTEMBER 3RD 1939’

Our sky is darkened. Our prodigious will

To good succumbs now to malignant lust.

Solace is futile; and more futile still

The ostrich-scorn, the ‘civilized’ disgust

Which, by despising, stimulated ill, Strengthened in us its roots, bred self-distrust, Stifled the voice which could have warned, until Our pitiful only cry is, ‘Fight we must!’

Let there be pride in battle then, for we Redeem to-day a shame not known before,

We that lived dormant, like a winter tree When the sap falls, spending past seasons’ store To buy a fool's sleep that we might not see Too soon the approaching Gorgon-face of war.

September 1939
****

FAREWELL TO 1939

Now the murk

Of evil thinking and obscene desire Smothers the fire

That lit the spirit’s crystal. Alike work,

Glib joy and thought,

And wine and laughter and the artist’s gift Fail, now, to lift

The barriers of despair! Our lives are sport

For madmen’s lust;

And that strong hope which cried to us to build, Mute, unfulfilled,

Has tasted stronger wisdom in the dust.

We must descend:

It is our penance for the foolish proud; We shall weep loud

Before our silence signifies the end.

We must submit,

Must buy with death a life already spent; We must consent,

Worshipping love, to make a mock of it.

How shall we live,

Since now our very heart-beats are not free? What future see,

When there is nothing left but life to give ?

Many must die, Yet there’ll be some for whom death’s not the end
Who shall extend

Their lives beyond this swift mortality.

Many must die,

Yet there’ll be some from whom the gift of living Is lesser giving

Then loss of long-loved friends: of these am I.

For this I hold: Friendship is more than life, longer than love; And it shall prove Warmth to the spirit when the body’s cold.
December 1939
***

NATURE IS RICH

Nature is rich;

The force of her tremendous breathing Could countless million times remake even your perfection;

But as a witch

Sees new worlds in her cauldron seething And fears her microcosin might shake And seeks protection,

With petulant blow

The cynic cauldron overturning : So Nature with her jealous heart Tar futures dreading

Had dimmed the glow

Of life in your sweet cavern burning, ‘the womb, where visions dream apart Unborn, unheeding. ...

She’s humbled now,

Her malice to obedience turning: You have made life by your own art, A new path treading,

And she brought low, From you her mother-wit re-learning, Shall feel in her reluctant heart A new warmth spreading.
December 1939

TO PEGGY ASHCROFT

‘There is a beauty we should not assess-—

-—The unconscious accident of perfect form:

We analyse—to find it has grown less,

And first amazement withers into scorn.

Your beauty is no accident. It lives

In each well-judged expression of your art,

And the enchantment of the whole survives

Analysis of each specific part,

Your tenderest simplicity can teem

With intricate complexities of skill,

And yet that skill can make the complex seem

A natural impulse--—not an act of will;

While fantasy more rich than any dream

Lacquers this magic with more magic still.
1939

HARMONIC I

As on a violin

The inadvertent touching of a string Sets an unbidden echo answering

In the still womb within;

As the despondent eye

Catching a gleam of the belated spring In the far lifting of a swallow’s wing Will brighten instantly ;

And as the splintered glass

That’s but a fragment of some nobler thing Under the sun’s illumining

Remembers what it was;

So when I hear you sing My heart lifts to the beating of your wing And fragments of your rich imagining Splinter and echo within.
December 1939


HARMONIC II

May not the violin

Sometimes resent its mastering,

Shrink froin the slow cruel curving of the bow

Along the nerve-ridge,

From the long mane’s stroking song on the delicate bridge, From the strong mind winning

Control of the reluctant strings with its fingers’ cunning?

I have been so long your instrument, Strung to the pitch of your demanding beauty, Resonant to no other touch But the wand of your mind in my soul.
Yet now, Now I must resent your mastering, Shutter my heart and shatter the resonance of the bowl That set my spirit shuddering As the G-string on a violin shudders to the note of a deep bell.

Such harm there lies in your warm beauty,

Such winning cunning in the understanding of your eyes: From your far deity even longing shrinks,

And desire’s commanding

To a strange voice blown, a vain spending,

Too faint to be hoard at its goal.

You should not blame then, If the spirit withdraws, Shrinks from the pain when you are its cause.

I was your Instrument, Mind with yours consonant In passion resonant

To no touch but yours. ..

No blame then, but pity

If the spirit withdraws.
December 1940

 

THE MANTLE

Recruits are issued with dead soldiers’ stock; Wield-muddied webbing, brass work that must mock Our novice hopes to get it clean.

No tragedy in that: what of the shock

All this first splash of blood ’ ve seen—

This ground-sheet that has warmed some dying Jock ? ‘Royal Scots: Dunkirk’! so reads the rune,

— Blood and a name where heroin has been,

This hero’s shroud must be my living hide!

To shield and warm: Pity is in this pride:

My warmth will never quicken him.

And yet by this he shall be sanctified, Through blood, and through a bullet’s whim; And the far, uncherished agony he died, Kindling new life as life grew dim,

Shall lift a new vision above my vision’s rim.

Devon, June 1940

A.A. BATTERY

Sentry on picket—and unaccustomed power! The slave is now a despot for an hour,

Cerberus of these clanging bars

I search all faces; the uneasy cower

Out of my bayonet’s gleam, while Mars

Gloats his approval from above the watch-tower.
Oh cynic pyramid of stars

To comfort me, yet promise Aim new wars.

By dawn the guard-room’s fetid with the heat, Of dozing men: the dubbin and sweat of feet, Seeping through leather, have begun

Inroads on sleep. The food we had hoped to eat After our watching should be done

Is shrivelled. Men shudder, waking. In the street A footstep rings towards the sun

Amen to this ordeal each night undergone.

Day grows; and now the air begins to beat

With many musics. Some, scarcely heard, are sweet, Rung in the throats of birds: but one

Is crueler, harsh, insistent, music of sleet,

Symbol of hatred never done—

The enemy’s dawn patrol. And that eagle fleet That climbs the horizon with each sun

Draws the last, deepest music from our gun.

Devon, June 1940





RETURN
For Morna

Orpheus came back from Hades—so too I Am granted my illusive liberty: Twenty-four hours of return
Into a world where beauty need not lie, Where knowledge need not shame to burn The poor defences of insanity;

Where even a soldier may discern

His peace again, and gentleness relearn.

This hill looks on my home! My spirit fills With the past-scented wind that re-instils Unhonoured faiths, forgotten peace.

This ridden moor has sculptured obstinate wills Of men and horses; and these trees

Are rooted in the permanence of the hills: There is a courage here that frees

Wisdom of pain, and love of bitterness,

The moon has foiled the shadows from this spur And laked the house in gold. I’ve envied her Each night this tender vigil. Frost,

Scattering its caprice of gossamer,

Flatters the landscape; and the ghost

Of this white Georgian backgrounded with fir Haunts its own garden, playing host,

But shy to welcome. I’ll enter—and be lost!

And yet my boots will blister those smooth floors And print the crystal-quilted lawn with sores, However humbly I may tread.
Out here even pain has a breadth; indoors There’s capture, and a joy I dread—

‘The arms of wife and children, and the paws Of frantic dogs. . . . What's to he said

To them by one returning from the dead? Said?
Why, no words! Leave speaking to these walls, That close in rush of love. The candle falls Admonishing ou them as they come,

And halts a globe of light, Caressing shawls

Of silence wrap away the drum;

And like these animals, warn leisure sprawls Through all the house, contented, dumb,

Making a swift, insidious prison of home.

Here then I’ll beg what yesterday was mine: Courage to love. For this hour Pll resign

The outcasts barren privilege

Of an unmoved heart. Loving, I shall mock time; In one swift night live a full age,

And at sunrise scatter the October rime

With my mare’s hoofs from the paddock hedge; Last hymn to freedom before pilgrimage.

September 1940

CITY IN SHADOW

‘To one who has been long in city pent’—

But you, John Keats, escaped; and we’re still here Serving this century’s imprisonment

Amid its darkening one-way streets of fear.
There is no heaven, nor any open face,

Our very prayers are mutterings of the war, And hatred has befouled each trysting-place

That love and languishment made sweet before.
We do not listen for your Philomel,

Our ears are tuned to a more deadly song, And since destruction does not see so well

At night, we pray that day be not too long.
Where death can soar, even into the air, There’s no escape, no peace, only despair.

21st March 1940




SO DEEP THE PAIN LIES

So deep the pain lies

Neither love nor sorrow has found it yot, Flushed in a dryness that defies

Even the unfastidious jet

Of warm, wet

Pity.... In the guarded eyes

No lifting of vigour, no glint, no wings,

No hope, that springs

So damned eternal in commoner things.

A spirit that dies In a curtained room, A pilgrim, for whom There is no flattery in the lies Which faith tho cheap-jack can devise To stretch the finality of the tomb.
Spring 1941




IN APRIL THIS EARTH

In April this earth Can break into bud into laughter at will, Printing lawn, painting shrub With its bright-coloured mirth, Can mockingly fill With honey tho calyx, with aloe tho stem To flutter the bees—drowsy bees— taunting them For their skill-less tongues, For sinking too deep In the waxen forgetting, the warmth of their winter sleep.

Last April this earth Could still promise gladness and tumult of harvesting, Bulb and seed clamoured birth, Though locked in the dark, though hugged in the sleep of the mound.
Last April Until dawn Could still weep its tumult, its laughter of daffodil,
The curtaining rain Rise up from the river to cover the vivid quilt,
To set its soft prisms on tiptoe upon each blade-— but deep in the shade Lest the sun,
Jealous of pearls that another than he had spilt, Should drink them to nothing, to air, at his own sweet will.

And can this be April—

New lease of the year and laughter’s rebirth—

Here where earth

That once clamoured answer is spet and scattered,
No blade
no thrust in the clod ?
And even the soft evocation of rain Foments no tumult but that which is spattered On shrub and flower— The tumult of mud.
Sole grant from heaven not sunlight: a bomb; And earth’s travail a mock to the bees that waken, A dismay to the sad daffodil.
Summer 1941




RELUCTANTLY, REMORSEFULLY

Reluctantly, remorsefully,

Youth creeps up the path of pain, Stumbles once or twice on love, Loses it again.

Sorrowfully, helplessly, Watches every beauty die, From perception’s rarest truth Ferrets out the lie.

Courageously,”pathetically, Day by day revises faith, Blindly eager to believe Progress can be growth.

But the spirit cannot grow When there is no faith to build, ‘The bravest vision must remain Always unfulfilled.

There is no wisdom that can reach ‘Truth, if truth no answer give; ‘The deepest sorrow cannot teach; Beauty how to live.

Helplessly, remorselessly, Youth creeps up the path of pain, Stumbles, now and then, on love, Loses it again.
March 1942

THE UNPROUD FLAME

There are times when the body yearns

And the mind must say, ‘Be still,

There is no fulfilment’;

When each swift, soft word

Burns in the memory, when the touch

Of each lovely movement remembered turns Cold will into flame,

And the mind must repeat, ‘Be still,

‘There is no fulfillment’.

There have been mornings breaking on the foreland In scattered pearl, each one its own fulfilment, When the gorse

alas swept like a yellow sea-wind across the moorland, White sun white clouds shadowing,

And the horses,

Whinnying pleasure in the dappled morning, slept Like poised birds along the cliff edge,

Carrying gods between the wheeling warnings

Of the seagulls soaring in and out of their high follies And the gay markets pilched

By daffodils far down in the wet valleys.

There have been cradled afternoons

OF sunlight rocking upon water,

Of willows swinging in a wide slow arc

Their lazy hands across the summer clock,

Of swallows mocking-—

Kissing and mocking at their shadows on the water
Of women singing

‘Their longing for the nightfall, knowing

That darkness like an eager river flowing

Brings them fulfilment.
There have been nights

Of moonlight dreaming on pale beaches,

Of black rocks sleeping

Like caverns in the memory of the sun,

OF little inquisitive winds that waken, filling The secret shadows of en:bracing limbs,

And spilling

Wet silver from the heavy awnings.

On nights like these the scurry and search of wind, The shuttle of the water weaving

Its slow history on the Luminous sand, Being also love’s speeches

Secret as touch and intimate as breathing, Like the touch and search of a beloved hand Have brought fulfilment,

Why do you remember

Those nights and the long afternoons

And the vivid mornings,

If now the body fears and the will insists

There must be no fulfilment?

Why do you torment

Tho shadows sleeping in the quiet awnings, Despising the unproud flame, self-deceiving, Mocking the slow shuttle weaving, the blind Stroug search of the body, the night’s fulfilling ?

There will come a time When the flame will awaken, defying, When the memory spilling From pools of inquisitive touch and the burning Of lips in the shuttered mind Will insist too much, London, May 1942

PROSPECT OF HARVEST
For the late Lieutenant William Rose, RN.

Aud so you are gone. And so there’ll be one heart less

‘To ache for lost man, one labourer less Lo reap

The pain-ripened harvest when suns once again shall bless. Our loss is too soon: for the silences still are deep

Between man and man. The clutch and the lease of hope, Pulse of our age, have torn deep through the web of soul; And terrified man in the planet’s dark envelope

Loses love, loses life, finds death not the part but the whole,

‘Yet there'll be harvest!’ ‘That vision at least was song In your eager mind, with its ravenous pity for men. ‘There will be harvest: and we, who foresee the wrong And accept now ils strife and its pain, shall be reapers then So you taught, and we dreamed, while the hemispheres slotted war, And ships which had seemed to you prisons in days of peace, Endowed with a sudden high purpose, were prisons no more But altars of England, guards of her singleness,

The winters of war have outlasted you. Ships have slid Like suns from the sea’s horizon, and now are held In The green globe captive till Judgement : you with their dead, Rebellious no doubt in death, as in life you rebelled. ‘Fate has altered the plot, but action and thought aro still mine And character’s of my making'! Let honky-tonk death Keep from sight in the wings till I’ve spoken my final line...’ So you talked, and we hoped, while continents held their breath.

The half-worlds have clashed: the continents gasp in their pain and Their pain that’s no longer yours.

‘There is peace I find On this wild Atlantic under the singing rain, In the red-lit dark, in the sca-wet fury of wind: There is peace, and there’s one thing more: thought and action are mine!’ So you wrote, and we—we were silent, knowing you gone
With your curses and laughter into the bubble of green, With your love for an England that curses and langhs—and fights on.
February 1942


THE TEAR

Here in the lounge of this hotel

We struggle for our holy ground, Our faces play discretion well,

Our deepest anguish breaks no sound; ‘he spirit’s sole confession here Swinis in the crystal of one tear.

We speak; and There is pain in words, And pain in heart that moves at them; We splinter mercy into shards,

Yet stoop at once to gather them;

A thousand deaths we take and give,

A thousand deaths that two may live.

If one were evil, one were true,

We should not climb this long distress; I should destroy the truth in you,

You world corrupt my steadfastness: Yet here we wrestle, right for right, As Jacob wrestled, all a night.

Nor you. nor I can ever gain

This last decision that we seek, Your victory will be your pain, My triumph will be my defeat, We must now for this logic part, Twisting the wisdom of the heart.

And yet, this lens of spirit here, This crystal symbol in your eye, Denies the images of fear
Lends faith a new integrity ; In this proud oracle we find Love neither asks nor grants an end,

Then truth’s herself! The lie of fear Blurs only edges of the mind;

In the swift focus of this tear Hesitancies of faith have found Concreteness. Now the ebb of doubt Runs past the uttermost beaches out,

Now from your soul my eyes remove One alter one each settled mask; Tutuitive fingers of your love

Draw tendrils from my barren dusk: Truth’s inmost curtain opens wide, And there is no more place to hide,

Cairo, January 1943

LOTUS

Reluctant-fingered the priest-sun Relinquishes the lily-pond, Surrenders love that was begun In the white flower fond.

Now spills she from her waxen cup The dew that their communion fed, Now yields the holy novice up

Her final maidenhead,

Aud closes from his long caress

‘To dream in loverhood with death, To immolate her loveliness

In the dark root beneath.

Seeks now the sun his celibate bed, Accepts night’s ceremonial stole; Bows Nenuphar hor sacred head, Folds her bright aureole.

Cairo, February 1943

A collection of Undated Poems by Stephen Haggard:

FORGETFULNESS:
Forgetfulness who brightest bliss
To those whose minds are sore oppressed
Who often hast with tender kiss
The soul of injured men caressed,
Let me forget my earthly cares,
My worldly pleasures and my rights
That i may climb the golden stairs
And dwell amongst the starry heights
But when with any kindly deed
Someone has tried my life to bless
Or helped me in my hour of need
Begone! O base forgetfulness….

TROOPSHIP:
Throbbing like a furtive mind
Carrying skilled murder, our nameless ship
Climbs the hot silences that slide
From night into restless night.
Each dusk, livid suns burn on through the powdery screen
And shrivel the wind.
Dark brings no respite: decks, hull, and saffron sea vomit their glut of heat.
Flooded boards, for a hissing instant loosened and cooled,
Shrink once again to steel.
In the midden of troop-decks
Where chrysalis hammocks swarm under iron ceilings
And sleep is remembered only
Boredom and anger flicker, unspoken,
Like fire behind glass;
Words grow unmeaning, too heavy for speech,
And a pale dust of loneliness settles on thought.






JOURNEYS BEGIN AT DAWN
The Sword light shears
Across the grey, still river.
The first cool wind of morning
Ruffles the reeds, and slow cranes
Wheel up to a day-tinged sky.

So many dawns
Lift the heart and wake the memory.

Dawn to the soldier that i was:
Bleak winter light across the wet English meadows,
The rifle cold to the hand,
Heavy feet that stumbled,
The sweating, smokey smell of tired men asleep;
The gun’s sleek smirk
To the clouded sky;
Misery, fear, hunger, boredom and the waiting day.
Dawn to the lover that I have been–
Heart of my loving heart! The dawn slides across your sleeping face…
So many dawns
Lift the heart and wake the memory.

HERE WHERE THE SUN…
Here where the sun
Is curse by the day and mockery at dusk
And night brings no atonement to these tents
That fret their anchors in flying sand,
Love is a ghost
That haunts unwelcomed, a disease of the mind.
Here all we ask
Is anaesthesia of the senses.
We have crushed
So long now the despairs of lip and heart ,
Smothered insistence
Of firelight from childhood rooms,
Jangled the cool song of snow,
Of shadows thrown
By English elms, hushed the flint cry
And splash of moorhens in the stillness
Where the wrinkles widen on the pond.
Until to-night
We have dismantled memory,
Fettered the bitter flight of thought
To this one false sky, spattered by fear
We had yet defied
The lapping danger of the comforter,
Dragged up our leaking wills like the boat for safety
From his lewd tide of words…..
Until to–night
We have despised the anodynes of other men,
The whiskey and the smutty magazines
And dreams’ of our girls’ bodies;
In pride of pride
In iron arrogance we have refused
Even the final bargain of a gun.
But now, to-night,
In one of these unpitied tents
That ride like barges under the smudged moon
Some madman has turned on Sibelius…
….Now moves love’s ghost
On drums, slow widening over forlorn moors.
Now slide beached wills
On ebb of obes down to the lapping tide;
Now climbs on rungs of the bassoons
The smothered flame from the rooms of childhood;
And the flint song of the violins,
From exile stillness of the finnish lakes
Recalling sentience,
Builds new despairs
Like tombstones upon memory.









AND DO YOU LIE AWAKE?
And do you lie awake?
In those long dusks that steal the night from summer,
That soothe the shadows from the wrinkled parkland
And smooth the jangled voices of the birds
And make quiet the woods?
And do you weep, reliving
In pallid thought the moods of love?
At window gleaning an unhurried west,
Do you stand to-night surrendered to the lost
Warm arms repining for a vanished shoulder,
Warm lips compelling
Out of the memories dark a lipless ghost?
Doe ebbing day
Still lose grey pools in those attentive mirrors,
Still sever crystals of itself
For their night setting in your eyes?
Now that the dust
Of loneliness on all your thinking lies,
Can the cool oboes of sibelius
Still weave their solace through the looms
Of yearning in those silent rooms?
And have you seen me wandering,
In sleepless thought, as now i wander, the lilac garden
And the white cavern of the porch?
In the moist search and whisper of the lawn,
Through accomplice doors,
Have you not felt the syllables of our tongue?
On each last journey up the stair
Have you not paused to hear
The known provoking footstep borne
Before you on the talkative oak?
Have you not seen
The fretful shadows on the landing
Grow instantly serene,
Sensing the ghost that waited for you there?
And gathered at last into that holy room
Where once love burned, where even now
Pebbles of doubt sink and are drowned
Into the believing gloom,
Have you not found your ghost made man?
And is there now sleep?





THE TANG HORSE
I know your spirit did not choose
To sojourn in this friendless house
Whose sullen alls like barriers close
To shut out love that love renews;
I know your spirit will despair
Because there is no beauty here
No sunlight whispered through the door,
No vision of the outer air;
I know that you will seek in vain
Among our ghosts the living man,
That truth will seem like falsehood soon
And love will offer only pain;
Therefore I send this gentle stone,
A thousand lovely years in one–
That you may think when i am gone;
“I breathe the air, I see the sun.’

AIR RAID
A fragment
Into the stillness of dawn
Comes that far off, sinister singing of engines,
Seeming at one moment like the ubiquitous
Buzzing of some titanic bee,
And at another moment a vibration in ourselves,
A breathing of nature—
No more than the blood beating at our own temples…
Oh the passionless voices of boys
Quivering and rising like doves in a cathedral!





INFANTRY TRAINING CENTER

There is no time!
There’s never any time for thought!
No time to feel!
Thinking’s a crime, discouraged here by bludgeoning.
Feelings’ some reflex from primeval slime,
A whip-lash, brute, unreasoning.
And so like puppets in a pantomime
We may not live, we only swing
To iron rhythms on an iron string.
Bungles and footsteps and words of command, and drums—
All the harsh din on which a barrack hums
Is hushed at last, the only sound
Stirs in this hutment, where the dark becomes
Each night an unconscious, underground
Lament, Self-Requiem of England’s sons,
Whom now the vultures hover round,
And an unpitying future has disowned
Now each man’s breathing is his sorrow’s book
Which I, awake, may read: my heart can look
Into the depth of each heart here
There snores the ploughboy, dreaming of the brook
By which he kissed his Jane last year;
And here a clerk cries out—that clerk who shook with most unmilitary fear
When an erratic bullet passed too near
Beside be sleeps a salesman
He eludes all cheerful overtures
He sits and broods
Because a promising career
Was shattered by the war.
No one intrudes on him: all men think him ‘queer’
He never smiles, we smiling at his moods,
Call him the laughing cavalier.
Yet he can weep at night. I heard him. I hear.
It is no more than loneliness that throws this dismal shadow on them
Making those who should be heroes, scarcely men?
Are all men children? Or must i suppose that only these shudder at pain,
And sicken with that hopelessness which flows
From the dark womb of war—
But then how shall the poet hearten them again?
Death mutters closer with each day we train.
What must we die for? Who commands our pain?
These men attempting to decide
Falter and doubt…. Yet they might smile again
To think there’s something worth their pride
In the dark foxgloves of this Devon lane
This rich red earth for which their father’s died,
And the grey steepled English countryside…..






BALLAD OF THE OUTWARD AND VISIBLE THINGS IN LIFE

And children come to birth with solemn eyes
That know no sin: the child grows up and dies;
And all mankind pursues this even way.
The green fruit ripens in the warmth and light,
And lush-ripe, drops, like a dead bird at night.
To lie some time on the ground, and so decay.
Eternal blow the winds; unceasingly
We hear unmeaning words and speak them
We succumb to lust and weariness of limb
Roads run through grass and towns lie where they please
Now here, now there, with lamplight, ponds, trees,
Cold sullen glare and withered, reedy rim….
To what end were they built these towns?
And why so many, but to differ endlessly?
They cannot make me laugh or weep or pale!
And shall I weep to see the children play,
Who child no more must cease as child to stray,
Alone must live, succeed or fail?
Yet I could weep because I’m far from home….
How sweet it is to think of home,
To feel the gentle sorrow of such musing steal
Through thought like honey from a heavy comb…..




 

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Also coming soon to Spotify: Requiem, for the lost, a WW2 audio play, exploring the lives of Oskar Werner and Stephen Haggard through a fictionalized dramatization of their experiences during WW2.

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