To F. G. S.
("Seriously wounded")
Peaks that you dreamed of, hills your heart has climbed on,
Never your feet shall climb, your eyes shall see;
All your life long you must tread lowly places,
Limping for England; well—so let it be.
We know your heart's too high for any grudging.
More than she asked, you gladly gave to her:
What tho' its streets you'll tramp instead of snow-fields,
You'll be the cheeriest, as you always were.
Yes, and you'll shoulder all our packs—we know you—
And none will guess you're wearied night or day—
Yes, you'll lift lots of lame dogs over fences,
Who might have lifted you, for that's your way.
All your life long—no matter—so you've chosen.
Pity you? Never—that were waste indeed—
Who up hills higher than the Alps you loved so
All your life long will point the way and lead.
Such men are mature in a sense that most of us are not. The joy of recognising their characters, the joy felt in these verses, is in quality like that we might receive from a fine picture in which a strong man and a number of lads were shown hauling a boat up the beach—their muscular developments contrasted, their attitudes rhythmically applied to a common task. So, like a charm, the presense of these grown-up souls organises and increases our strength. Even Vernède's trumpet-calls give me glimpses of a man whole-heartedly playing with children in time he was free to give to some congenial hobby. What though his boyishness be a little out of fashion as compared with theirs! He succeeds and keeps them even-tempered,
