TO POETS
We are the homeless, even as you,
Who hope and never can begin.
Our hearts are wounded through and through
Like yours, but our hearts bleed within.
We too make music, but our tones
'Scape not the barrier of our bones.
We have no comeliness like you.
We toil, unlovely, and we spin,
We start, return: we wind, undo:
We hope, we err, we strive, we sin.
We love: your love's not greater, but
The lips of our love's might stay shut.
We have the evil spirits too
That shake our soul with battle-din,
But we have an eviller spirit than you,
We have a dumb spirit within:
The exceeding bitter agony
But not the exceeding bitter cry.
Here are shapeliness and vigour once more and, though finish and colour are to seek, there is still a marked improvement as the end comes in view.
Like other soldier poets, Sorley is anxious to think well of Death, whom he addresses:
I.
Saints have adored the lofty soul of you.
Poets have whitened at your high renown.
We stand among the many millions who
Do hourly wait to pass your pathway down.
You, so familiar, once were strange: we tried
To live as of your presence unaware.
But now in every road, on every side,
We see your straight and steadfast signpost here.
I think it like that signpost in my land,
