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Siegfried Sassoon - The Last MeetingSiegfried Sassoon - The Last Meeting
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I Because the night was falling warm and still   Upon a golden day at April’s end,   I thought; I will go up the hill once more   To find the face of him that I have lost,   And speak with him before his ghost has flown Far from the earth that might not keep him long.     So down the road I went, pausing to see   How slow the dusk drew on, and how the folk   Loitered about their doorways, well-content   With the fine weather and the waxing year. The miller’s house, that glimmered with grey walls,   Turned me aside; and for a while I leaned   Along the tottering rail beside the bridge   To watch the dripping mill-wheel green with damp.   The miller peered at me with shadowed eyes And pallid face: I could not hear his voice   For sound of the weir’s plunging. He was old.   His days went round with the unhurrying wheel.     Moving along the street, each side I saw   The humble, kindly folk in lamp-lit rooms; Children at table; simple, homely wives;   Strong, grizzled men; and soldiers back from war,   Scaring the gaping elders with loud talk.     Soon all the jumbled roofs were down the hill,   And I was turning up the grassy lane That goes to the big, empty house that stands   Above the town, half-hid by towering trees.   I looked below and saw the glinting lights:   I heard the treble cries of bustling life,   And mirth, and scolding; and the grind of wheels. An engine whistled, piercing-shrill, and called   High echoes from the sombre slopes afar;   Then a long line of trucks began to move.     It was quite still; the columned chestnuts stood   Dark in their noble canopies of leaves. I thought: ‘A little longer I’ll delay,   And then he’ll be more glad to hear my feet,   And with low laughter ask me why I’m late.   The place will be too dim to show his eyes,   But he will loom above me like a tree, With lifted arms and body tall and strong.’     There stood the empty house; a ghostly hulk   Becalmed and huge, massed in the mantling dark,   As builders left it when quick-shattering war   Leapt upon France and called her men to fight. Lightly along the terraces I trod,   Crunching the rubble till I found the door   That gaped in twilight, framing inward gloom.   An owl flew out from under the high eaves   To vanish secretly among the firs, Where lofty boughs netted the gleam of stars.   I stumbled in; the dusty floors were strewn   With cumbering piles of planks and props and beams;   Tall windows gapped the walls; the place was free   To every searching gust and jousting gale; But now they slept; I was afraid to speak,   And heavily the shadows crowded in.     I called him, once; then listened: nothing moved:   Only my thumping heart beat out the time.   Whispering his name, I groped from room to room.   Quite empty was that house; it could not hold   His human ghost, remembered in the love   That strove in vain to be companioned still.     II Blindly I sought the woods that I had known   So beautiful with morning when I came Amazed with spring that wove the hazel twigs   With misty raiment of awakening green.   I found a holy dimness, and the peace   Of sanctuary, austerely built of trees,   And wonder stooping from the tranquil sky.   Ah! but there was no need to call his name.   He was beside me now, as swift as light.   I knew him crushed to earth in scentless flowers,   And lifted in the rapture of dark pines.   ‘For now,’ he said, ‘my spirit has more eyes Than heaven has stars; and they are lit by love.   My body is the magic of the world,   And dawn and sunset flame with my spilt blood.   My breath is the great wind, and I am filled   With molten power and surge of the bright waves That chant my doom along the ocean’s edge.     ‘Look in the faces of the flowers and find   The innocence that shrives me; stoop to the stream   That you may share the wisdom of my peace.   For talking water travels undismayed. The luminous willows lean to it with tales   Of the young earth; and swallows dip their wings   Where showering hawthorn strews the lanes of light.     ‘I can remember summer in one thought   Of wind-swept green, and deeps of melting blue, And scent of limes in bloom; and I can hear   Distinct the early mower in the grass,   Whetting his blade along some morn of June.     ‘For I was born to the round world’s delight,   And knowledge of enfolding motherhood, Whose tenderness, that shines through constant toil,   Gathers the naked children to her knees.   In death I can remember how she came   To kiss me while I slept; still I can share   The glee of childhood; and the fleeting gloom When all my flowers were washed with rain of tears.     ‘I triumph in the choruses of birds,   Bursting like April buds in gyres of song.   My meditations are the blaze of noon   On silent woods, where glory burns the leaves. I have shared breathless vigils; I have slaked   The thirst of my desires in bounteous rain   Pouring and splashing downward through the dark.   Loud storm has roused me with its winking glare,   And voice of doom that crackles overhead. I have been tired and watchful, craving rest,   Till the slow-footed hours have touched my brows   And laid me on the breast of sundering sleep.’     III I know that he is lost among the stars,   And may return no more but in their light. Though his hushed voice may call me in the stir   Of whispering trees, I shall not understand.   Men may not speak with stillness; and the joy   Of brooks that leap and tumble down green hills   Is faster than their feet; and all their thoughts Can win no meaning from the talk of birds.     My heart is fooled with fancies, being wise;   For fancy is the gleaming of wet flowers   When the hid sun looks forth with golden stare.   Thus, when I find new loveliness to praise, And things long-known shine out in sudden grace,   Then will I think: ‘He moves before me now.’   So he will never come but in delight,   And, as it was in life, his name shall be   Wonder awaking in a summer dawn, And youth, that dying, touched my lips to song. Flixécourt. May 1916.
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