I had ridden far from the battle, from the red wrack, and the last
Lost hope that had clung to hope till the shadow of hope was past,
From the stream that ran blood, not water, and the grief that burned like fire
For the cause lying trodden down and down in the battle-mire.
I had not washen my sweat off, nor the red stain o’ the field;
I could scarce bear up my battered harness and dinted shield.
Spent was I, clean forspent, and my heart like lead in my breast,
And the very bones o’ my body yearned and hungered for rest.
Then, through the dusty byways, while yet the West was aflame
Like a plundered city with sunset, at the end of even I came,
Heart-weary and body-weary, with my wounds both many and deep,
To the well that is called oblivion, to the quiet waters of sleep.
Rosy it brimmed in the twilight, redder and fairer than wine,
Cold in a grey stone hollow I saw it dimple and shine:
And of all that a man might dream and desire, then seemed it the best
To drink, and be no more thirsty, lie down and for ever rest.
I looked my last on the sunset ere my dry lips drank their fill,
I bade good-bye to the earth and sky and the windy hill:
And all I had fought and lost for, all I had loved and known,
Came back and lingered beside me where I knelt by the pool alone.
A bird cried o’er the pastures, a weak wind wakened and stirred,
Rustling the dusty wayside weed like a stealthy step half-heard:
And the well that slept in silence deep as the dreamless years
On a sudden sobbed in the stillness with a sound like human tears.
Old trumpets pealed in the twilight; lost war-cries rang as of old:
And I looked where the night mist gathered ghostly and grey, and behold!
Squadron on squadron, rank upon rank in the darkening sky,
Saw as it were my comrades muster, and heard them cry:
“You will sleep sound, our comrade: never, never again
Will you ride out for a cause forlorn, in the wind and rain.
And the din and thunder of battle shall be in your ears no more
Than the sigh of a lost wave breaking on a far-off shore.”
“All that was bitter and weary, all that was grievous and hard,
You shall put off as a garment, and cast away as a shard.
All that was gallant and goodly &mdash the splendour, the glory, the gleam,
Shall pass away as a tale forgotten, or a long past dream.”
“Laid aside as a burthen, as a child’s sorrow forgot,
Though morn and even clamour the trumpets: ‘Why comes he not’ —
He who was once our comrade — he whose slumber is deep
By the well which is called Oblivion, by the quiet waters of Sleep?”
“Win or lose, what matters at all, when the unheeding hand
Never gropes through the mist of sleep for the rusted brand?
What matter when never the dreaming heart nor the drowsy eye
Quicken because he remembers the great old days gone by?”
Ah, God, I was weary . . . weary, and wounded, and sore athirst:
But I turned from the clear cold waters, my heart knew them accurst:
And I rode in my dinted armour, with my wounds both many and deep,
From the well that is called Oblivion, from the quiet waters of Sleep.
(Cicely Fox Smith)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, God Poems, Night Poems, War & Peace Poems, Dreams Poems, Cry Poems, Hope Poems, Sleep Poems, Success Poems, Birds Poems, Past PoemsBased on Keywords: byways, half-heard, dinted, shard, not, forspent, washen, war-cries, heart-weary