THREE HILLS
THERE is a hill in England,
Green fields and a school I know,
Where the balls fly fast in summer,
And the whispering elm-trees grow,
A little hill, a dear hill,
And the playing fields below.
There is a hill in Flanders,
Heaped with a thousand slain,
Where the shells fly night and noontide
And the ghosts that died in vain,—
A little hill, a hard hill
To the souls that died in pain.
There is a hill in Jewry,
Three crosses pierce the sky,
On the midmost He is dying
To save all those who die,—
A little hill, a kind hill
To souls in jeopardy.
Harrow, December, 1915.
YPRES TOWER, RYE
TOWER of Ypres that watchest, gravely smiling,
Green marsh-meadows stretching far away,
With long thoughts of famous deeds beguiling
March unceasing of the ages grey,
Once beneath thee
Swayed the seaweed, churned and foamed the sea.
Fleet of Frenchman, fleet of Spaniard thundered,
Victor, vanquished, 'neath your little hill,
Gaily fearless if they fled or plundered,
You, who faced our foemen, face them still—
Now the reeds sigh,
Young lambs frolic where tall ships sailed by.
