Katherine Hale
Thus we came:
We came as cattle come, when packed too tight In some barbaric car of ancient mould; We came not driven with whips, nor massed in crowds, But driven by bitter pain and almost dead From faintness of our wounds. We came From siege and rapine, plunder and hell-fire, From thunders never ceasing, from swift death, From screams and cries, and parting gasp of souls, And from supremest vision given to man. This way we came to London.
Oh, my friends,
We touched white cliffs upon a summer day, Pain-blinded, minds befogged, we rode along That ancient-traversed way of all the world. And, slowly, as the evening shadows fell We reached old Paddington. Were driven out In shabby cabs, through misty, half-lit ways, Into a great wide Place, from whence small streets Wandered zig-zag with no apparent plan, Yet knew we were at home.
I still can feel
The cab stop for a moment, and a face Peer in the open window. Twas a mask Set in a flowered hat. With awful eyes She stared, and asked, and answered in a flash: Ah, well! You re nearly dead, poor dears, but I I, who am here forever, come again.
And then we drifted on, and soft grey walls Held us a moment to dissolve in mist. Once at a turn I saw the Abbey rise And once the outstretched arms of giant trees. Sometimes a light, but always murmurous noise Not so much hoof-beat, motor-hum or cry, As vibrancy of voices, far and near,
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