Although most sweet or bitter,
Here ends in sleep that is sweeter
Than tasks most noble.
There is not any book
Or face of dearest look
That I would not turn from now
To go into the unknown
I must enter and leave alone
I know not how.
The tall forest towers;
Its cloudy foliage lowers
Ahead, shelf above shelf;
Its silence I hear and obey
That I may lose my way
And myself.
And this feeling that he is looking his last on things recurs less elusively in such lines as—
Never again, perhaps, after to-morrow shall
I see these homely streets, these church windows alight,
Not a man or woman or child among them all;
But it is All-Friends'-Night, a traveller's good-night.
All his poems were written in the atmosphere of war, during his training days or while he was at the front, but apart from a rousing call in 'The Trumpet'—
