Wind, blow softly to-day, lest you should lift
Ten years’ careful curtain before our eyes
Wind of Spring, go lightly as petals drift;
Trouble us not with fragrance, lest we know
Passions keen as flame to walk at our side
Once again, the terror and hope and pride;
Lest again in our hearts should burn the slow
Tears that saved men shed for the ransom-price.
Touch not the grass, that better were left unstirred
Under the trees they loved, the faithful trees;
Start no song of youth’s remembering bird,
Lest, like sharp blue scimitars, memories
Cleave through their quiet, dream they never so deep.
Better it is to forget, better to sleep.
Wind, you are freighted with wisdom. Lover and saint,
King and shepherd, have given you all their tale.
Flying by Nineveh town, you gather the faint
Broken songs of men that triumph or fail.
Wind agleam in the blossoms, know then the truth:
Never the dreamers builded their city of youth,
Never the spired azure towers have grown
Over the lives laid down for a cornerstone,
Never the reapers sing through Canaan won,
Field and orchard white to a risen sun.
Yet, should They listen, hearing with patient ears
All the vanished hopes of the vanished years,
Wind of Spring, adream where the petals drift,
Ask them now the rich and ultimate gift.
Seek the field where the wooden crosses stand,
Guarding England’s glory in Holy Land.
Pilgrim wind, with wondering heart draw near —
Half the treasure of earth lies buried here.
Wait amid the poppies; with bended head,
Ask for faith, of the faithful-hearted dead.