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Poem

Twickenham's green mead is dank and gray
The sun behind the clouds has gone away
In the drying woods a solitary soul, O alone,
So alone, translate grief to incessant moan.
Nature shows its one with us, in all things
We suffer it shares and times our stings
And often sorrowing, but ah muted mouth
Of trees tell us then what mortality is about!

We were one hundred eighty strong to start
But some could not endure, the long shaping
That mettled a special breed, firmed the heart
Till we became comrades, dreamers hoping
To give our land a new birth and happiness.
Soon only a remnant was left for the process
And how played, fought, laughed, loved, ate
And thought we were captains of all our fate.

Perhaps some were, but some so soon, as dust
Would grow the visioned grain, and more the pain
For those died last, than when in youth's distrust
Some left to explore that other dimmer terrain
Here now in old age each passing friend assures
Us, time is slowly evening up the haunted scores
We grieve for this sense of lost, this vanity of life
This less than social ending of unfinished strife.

Yet something human in us grieve for human loss
Beyond the fathom of our ken, missing each friend,
Each classmate, each ole farmer from the grass -
Knowing not where or when each journey will end
O but Twickenham green mead do not cry, we hail
You immortal in the work you set us, our hopes prevail
That beyond the memories of our rustic days, again
We shall meet husbandmen of the bright celestial plain.

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