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17th-Feb-2019 01:00 am - Henry Van Dyke, 'The Oxford Thrushes'
The Oxford Thrushes
February, 1917

I never thought again to hear
The Oxford thrushes singing clear,
Amid the February rain,
Their sweet, indomitable strain.

A wintry vapor lightly spreads
Among the trees, and round the beds
Where daffodil and jonquil sleep,
Only the snowdrop wakes to weep.

It is not springtime yet. Alas,
What dark, tempestuous days must pass,
Till England's trial by battle cease,
And summer comes again with peace.

The lofty halls, the tranquil towers,
Where Learning in untroubled hours
Held her high court, serene in fame,
Are lovely still, yet not the same.

The novices in fluttering gown
No longer fill the ancient town,
But fighting men in khaki drest--
And in the Schools the wounded rest.

Ah, far away, 'neath stranger skies
Full many a son of Oxford lies,
And whispers from his warrior grave,
"I died to keep the faith you gave."

The mother mourns, but does not fail,
Her courage and her love prevail
O'er sorrow, and her spirit hears
The promise of triumphant years.

Then sing, ye thrushes, in the rain
Your sweet indomitable strain.
Ye bring a word from God on high
And voices in our hearts reply.

By Henry Van Dyke
16th-Feb-2019 01:00 am - Geoffrey Dearmer, 'She To Him'
She To Him

The day you died, my Share of All
My soul was tossed
Hither and thither, like a leaf,
And lost, lost, lost,
From sounds and sight,
Beneath the night
Of gloom and grief.

But -
(Hush, for the wind may hear)
Soon, soon you came in solitude:
And we renewed
All happiness.
Now, who shall guess
How close we are, my dear?
(Hush, for the wind may hear.)

Yet -
Other women wait
Their doors ajar;
And listen, listen, listen,
For the gate,
And murmur, "Soon, the war
Will seem a far,
Dim agony of sleep."

May I be joyful, too,
That day,
For love of you
May I not turn away
Nor - weep.

by Geoffrey Dearmer
15th-Feb-2019 01:00 am - May Wedderburn Cannan, 'Lamplight'

We planned to shake the world together, you and I
Being young, and very wise;
Now in the light of the green shaded lamp
Almost I see your eyes
Light with the old gay laughter; you and I
Dreamed greatly of an Empire in those days,
Setting our feet upon laborious ways,
And all you asked of fame
Was crossed swords in the Army List,
My Dear, against your name.

We planned a great Empire together, you and I,
Bound only by the sea;
Now in the quiet of a chill Winter's night
Your voice comes hushed to me
Full of forgotten memories: you and I
Dreamed great dreams of our future in those days,
Setting our feet on undiscovered ways,
And all I asked of fame
A scarlet cross on my breast, my Dear,
For the swords by your name.

We shall never shake the world together, you and I,
For you gave your life away;
And I think my heart was broken by the war,
Since on a summer day
You took the road we never spoke of: you and I
Dreamed greatly of an Empire in those days;
You set your feet upon the Western ways
And have no need of fame-
There's a scarlet cross on my breast, my Dear,
And a torn cross with your name.

by May Wedderburn Cannan
The Storming Party

Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,
'Though the breach is steep and narrow,
If we only gain the summit
Then it's odds we hold the fort.
I have ten and you have twenty,
And the thirty should be plenty,
With Henderson and Henty
And McDermott in support.'

Said Barrow to Leroy,
'It's a solid job, my boy,
For they've flanked it, and they've banked it,
And they've bored it with a mine.
But it's only fifty paces
Ere we look them in the faces;
And the men are in their places,
With their toes upon the line.'

Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,
'See that first ray, like an arrow,
How it tinges all the fringes
Of the sullen drifting skies.
They told me to begin it
At five-thirty to the minute,
And at thirty-one I'm in it,
Or my sub will get his rise.

'So we'll wait the signal rocket,
Till... Barrow, show that locket,
That turquoise-studded locket,
Which you slipped from out your pocket
And are pressing with a kiss!
Turquoise-studded, spiral-twisted,
It is hers! And I had missed it
From her chain; and you have kissed it:
Barrow, villain, what is this?'

'Leroy, I had a warning,
That my time has come this morning,
So I speak with frankness, scorning
To deny the thing that's true.
Yes, it's Amy's, is the trinket,
Little turquoise-studded trinket,
Not her gift—oh, never think it!
For her thoughts were all for you.

'As we danced I gently drew it
From her chain—she never knew it
But I love her—yes, I love her:
I am candid, I confess.
But I never told her, never,
For I knew 'twas vain endeavour,
And she loved you—loved you ever,
Would to God she loved you less!'
'Barrow, Barrow, you shall pay me!
Me, your comrade, to betray me!
Well I know that little Amy
Is as true as wife can be.
She to give this love-badged locket!
She had rather... Ha, the rocket!
Hi, McDougall! Sound the bugle!
Yorkshires, Yorkshires, follow me!'

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Said Paul Leroy to Amy,
'Well, wifie, you may blame me,
For my passion overcame me,
When he told me of his shame;
But when I saw him lying,
Dead amid a ring of dying,
Why, poor devil, I was trying
To forget, and not to blame.

'And this locket, I unclasped it
From the fingers that still grasped it:
He told me how he got it,
How he stole it in a valse.'
And she listened leaden-hearted:
Oh, the weary day they parted!
For she loved him—yes, she loved him—
For his youth and for his truth,
And for those dying words, so false.

by Arthur Conan Doyle
13th-Feb-2019 01:00 am - Tyler Connolly, 'Wait For Me'
Wait For Me

You are not alone tonight
Imagine me there by your side
It's so hard to be here so far away from you
I'm counting the days till
I'm finally done
I'm counting them down, yeah, one by one
It feels like forever till I return to you
But it helps me on those lonely nights
It's that one thing that keeps me alive

Knowing that you wait for me
Ever so patiently

No one else knows the feeling inside
We hang up the phone without saying goodnight
Because it's the sound of your voice that brings me home
It's never been easy to say
But it's easier when I've gone away

Knowing that you wait for me
Ever so patiently
Yeah, you're everything I've ever dreamed of having and
It's everything I need from you just knowing that you wait for me

What I'd give
What I'd do
Knowing I'm not there for you
Makes it so hard to leave
What I'd give
What I'd do
Anything to get me home to you
And this time I'll stay

And you wait for me
Ever so patiently
Yeah, you're everything I've ever dreamed of having and
It's everything I need from you just knowing that you wait for me

By Tyler Connolly

Somewhere in France

Somewhere in France my heart is kept
In a soldier’s heart, out there.
Last night I know not where it slept,
My heart, in his heart’s care.

I know not if he slept at all,
My man across the sea.
I do not know if he will fall
Or come back safe to me.

He has my heart. That is my share,
My bit, that I have sent out there.

By Isabel Howe Fiske
A Lover From Palestine

Your eyes are a thorn in my heart
Inflicting pain, yet I cherish that thorn
And shield it from the wind.
I sheathe it in my flesh, I sheathe it, protecting it from night and agony,
And its wound lights the lanterns,
Its tomorrow makes my present
Dearer to me than my soul.
And soon I forget, as eye meets eye,
That once, behind the doors, there were two of us.

Your words were a song
And I tried to sing, too,
But agony encircled the lips of spring.
And like the swallow, your words took wing,
The door of our home and the autumnal threshold migrated,
To follow you wherever led by longing
Our mirrors were shattered,
And sorrow was multiplied a thousand fold.
And we gathered the splinters of sound,
Mastering only the elegy of our homeland!
Together were will plant it in the heart of a lyre,
And on the rooftops of our tragedy we'll play it
To mutilated moons and to stones.
But I have forgotten, you of the unknown voice:
Was it your departure that rushed the lyre or was it my silence?

Yesterday I saw you in the port,
A long voyager without provisions,
Like an orphan I ran to you,
Asking the wisdom of our forefathers:
How can the ever-verdant orange grove be dragged
To prison, to exile, to a port,
And despite all her travels,
Despite the scent of salt and longing,
Remain evergreen?
I write in my diary:
I love oranges and hate the port
And I write further:
On the dock
I stood, and saw the world through Witter's eyes
Only the orange peel is ours, and behind me lay the desert.

In the briar-covered mountains I saw you,
A shepherdess without sheep,
Pursued among the ruins.
You were my garden, and I a stranger,
Knocking at the door, my heart,
For upon my heart stand firm
The door and windows, the cement and stones.

I have seen you in casks of water, in granaries,
Broken, I have seen you a maid in night clubs,
I have seen you in the gleam of tears and in wounds.
You are the other lung in my chest;
You are the sound on my lips;
You are water; you are fire.

I saw you at the mouth of the cave, at the cavern,
Hanging your orphans' rags on the wash line.
In the stoves, in the streets I have seen you.
In the barns and in the sun's blood.
In the songs of the orphaned and the wretched I have seen you.
I have seen you in the salt of the sea and in the sand.
Yours was the beauty of the earth, of children and of Arabian jasmine.

And I have vowed
To fashion from my eyelashes a kerchief,
And upon it to embroider verses for your eyes,
And a name, when watered by a heart that dissolves in chanting,
Will make the sylvan arbours grow.
I shall write a phrase more precious than honey and kisses:
'Palestinian she was and still is'.

On a night of storms, I opened the door and the window
To see the hardened moon of our nights.
I said to the night: Run out,
Beyond the darkness and the wall;
I have a promise to keep with words and light.
You are my virgin garden
As long as our songs
Are swords when we draw them.
And you are as faithful as grain
So long as our songs
Keep alive the fertile soil when we plant them.
You are like a palm tree in the mind:
Neither storm nor woodsman's ax can fell it.
Its braids uncut
By the beasts of desert and forest
But I am the exiled one behind wall and door,
Shelter me in the warmth of your gaze.

Take me, wherever you are,
Take me, however you are.
To be restored to the warmth of face and body,
To the light of heart and eye,
To the salt of bread and song,
To the taste of earth and homeland.
Shelter me in the warmth of your gaze,
Take me, a panel of almond wood, in the cottage of sorrows,
Take me, a verse from the book of my tragedy,
Take me, a plaything or a stone from the house,
So that our next generation may recall
The path of return to our home.

Her eyes and the tattoo on her hands are Palestinian,
Her name, Palestinian,
Her dreams, and sorrow, Palestinian,
Her Kerchief, her feet and body, Palestinian,
Her words and her silence, Palestinian,
Her voice, Palestinian,
Her birth and her death, Palestinian,
I have carried you in my old notebooks
As the fire of my verses,
The sustenance for my journeys.
In your name, my voice rang in the valleys:
I have seen Byzantium's horses
Even though the battle be different.
Beware, oh beware
The lightning struck by my song in the granite.
I am the flower of youth and the knight of knights!
I am the smasher of idols.
I plant the Levantine borders
With poems that set eagles free.
And in your name I have shouted at the enemy:
Worms, feed on my flesh if ever I slumber,
For the eggs of ants cannot hatch eagles,
And the shell of the adder's egg
Holds but a snake!
I have seen Byzantium's horses,
And before it all, I know
That I am the flower of youth and the knight of knights!

By Mahmoud Darwish
11th-Feb-2019 01:00 am - Leon Gellert, 'The Husband'
The Husband

Yes, I have slain, and taken moving life
From bodies. Yea! And laughed upon the taking;
And, having slain, have whetted still the knife
For more and more, and heeded not the making
Of things that I was killing. Such 'twas then!
But now the thirst so hideous has left me.
I live within a coolness, among calm men,
And yet am strange. A something has bereft me
Of a seeing, and strangely love returns;
And old desires half-known, and hanging sorrows.
I seem agaze with wonder. Memory burns.
I see a thousand vague and sad tomorrows.
None sees my sadness. No one understands
How I must touch her hair with bloody hands.

By Leon Gellert
10th-Feb-2019 01:00 am - Greg Lake, 'Lucky Man'
Lucky Man

He had white horses and ladies by the score
All dressed in satin and waiting by the door

Ooh, what a lucky man he was
Ooh, what a lucky man he was

White lace and feathers, they made up his bed
A gold covered mattress on which he was laid

Ooh, what a lucky man he was
Ooh, what a lucky man he was

He went to fight wars for his country and his king
Of his honor and his glory, the people would sing

Ooh, what a lucky man he was
Ooh, what a lucky man he was

A bullet had found him, his blood ran as he cried
No money could save him, so he laid down and died

Ooh, what a lucky man he was
Ooh, what a lucky man he was

By Gregory Lake

9th-Feb-2019 01:00 am - Robert Service, 'Afternoon Tea'
Afternoon Tea

As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea ;
Cows weren't allowed in the trenches — got out of the habit, y'see.)
As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten:
" Come on, lads!" he shouts, " and we'll show 'em." And he sprang to the head of the men.
Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, and he fell on his face with a slam. . . .
Oh, he died like a true British soldier, and the last word he uttered was " Damn! "
And hang it! I loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain,
And I cared no more for the bullets than I would for a shower of rain.

'Twas an awfly funny sensation (I say, this is jolly nice tea) ;
I felt as if something had broken; by gad! I was suddenly free.
Free for a glorified moment, beyond regulations and laws,
Free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap of the Stone Age was.
So on I went joyously nursing a Berserker rage of my own,
And though all my chaps were behind me, feeling most frightf'ly alone;
With the bullets and shells ding-donging, and the " krock " and the swish of the shrap;
And I found myself humming " Ben Bolt " . . . (Will you pass me the sugar, old chap?

Two lumps, please). . . .What was I saying? Oh yes, the jolly old dash;
We simply ripped through the barrage, and on with a roar and a crash.
My fellows — Old Nick couldn't stop 'em. On, on they went with a yell,
Till they tripped on the Boches' sand-bags, — nothing much left to tell:
A trench so tattered and battered that even a rat couldn't live;
Some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you could pass through a sieve.
The jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us out of our show,
And my fellows were simply yearning for a red mix-up with the foe.

So I shouted to them to follow, and on we went roaring again,
Battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden rain.
Then all at once a machine gun barks from a bit of a bank,
And our Major roars in a fury : " We've got to take it on flank."
He was running like fire to lead us, when down like a stone he comes,
As full of " typewriter " bullets as a pudding is full of plums.

So I took his job and we got 'em. ... By gad! we got 'em like rats;
Down in a deep shell-crater we fought like Kilkenny cats.
'Twas pleasant just for a moment to be sheltered and out of range,
With someone you saw to go for- — it made an agreeable change.
And the Bodies that missed my bullets, my chaps gave a bayonet jolt,
And all the tune, I remember, I whistled and hummed " Ben Bolt."

Well, that little job was over, so hell for leather we ran,
On to the second line trenches, — that's where the fun began.
For though we had strafed 'em like fury, there still were some Boches about,
And my fellows, teeth set and eyes glaring, like terriers routed 'em out.
Then I stumbled on one of their dug-outs, and I shouted: "Is anyone there?"
And a voice, "Yes, one; but I'm wounded," came faint up the narrow stair;
And my man was descending before me, when sudden a cry! a shot!
(I say, this cake is delicious. You make it yourself, do you not?)

My man? Oh, they killed the poor devil; for if there was one there was ten ;
So after I'd bombed 'em sufficient I went down at the head of my men,
And four tried to sneak from a bunk-hole, but we cornered the rotters all right ;
I'd rather not go into details, 'twas messy that bit of the fight.
But all of it's beastly messy; let's talk of pleasanter things :
The skirts that the girls are wearing, ridiculous fluffy things,
So short that they show. . . . Oh, hang it! Well, if I must, I must. '

We cleaned out the second trench line, bomb and bayonet thrust;
And on we went to the third one, quite calloused to crumping by now;
And some of our fellows who'd passed us were making a deuce of a row;
And my chaps — well, I just couldn't hold 'em; (It's strange how it is with gore;
In some ways it's just like whiskey: if you taste it you must have more.)
Their eyes were like beacons of battle; by gad, sir they couldn't be calmed,
So I headed 'em bang for the bomb-belt, racing like billy-be-damned.

Oh, it didn't take long to arrive there, those who arrived at all ;
The machine guns were certainly chronic, the shindy enough to appal.
Oh yes, I omitted to tell you, I'd wounds on the chest and the head,
And my shirt was torn to a gun-rag, and my face blood-gummy and red.
I'm thinking I looked like a madman; I fancy I felt one too,
Half naked and swinging a rifle. . . . God! what a glorious " do."

As I sit here in old Picadilly, sipping my afternoon tea,
I see a blind, bullet-chipped devil, and it's hard to believe that it's me ;
I see a wild, war-damaged demon, smashing out left and right,
And humming " Ben Bolt " rather loudly, and hugely enjoying the fight.
And as for my men, may God bless 'em! I've loved 'em ever since then:
They fought like the shining angels; they're the pick o' the land, my men.
And the trench was a reeking shambles, not a Boche to be seen alive —
So I thought; but on rounding a traverse I came on a covey of five;

And four of 'em threw up their flippers, but the fifth chap, a sergeant, was game,
And though I'd a bomb and revolver he came at me just the same.
A sporty thing that, I tell you ; I just couldn't blow him to hell,
So I swung to the point of his jaw-bone, and down like a ninepin he fell.
And then when I'd brought him to reason, he wasn't half bad, that Hun;
He bandaged my head and my short-rib as well as the Doc could have done.
So back I went with my Boches, as gay as a two-year-old colt,
And it suddenly struck me as rummy, I still was a-humming " Ben Bolt"

And now, by Jove how I've bored you.
You've just let me babble away;
Let's talk of the things that matter — your car or the newest play. . . .

by Robert Service

Ben Bolt. By Nelson Kneass, 1848.

John McCormack ~ Ben Bolt. 1914
Every Warrior Has Said

Every warrior has said 'yes' when he meant 'no'
Every warrior has said 'i will' when he meant 'no way!'
Every warrior has said 'aye, aye' when he meant 'i can't'
Every warrior has said 'okay' when he meant 'damn it'
Every warrior has said 'got it' when he meant 'what are you talking about?'
Every warrior has said 'noted' when he meant 'what was that? '
Every warrior has said 'i know' when he meant 'i have no idea'
Every warrior has said 'i can' when he meant 'that's impossible!'
Every warrior has said 'i will go' when he meant 'could i stay?'
Every warrior has said 'I'm fine' when he meant 'I'm already getting insane!'
Every warrior has said 'I'm available' when he meant 'I'm fully loaded! '
Every warrior has said 'coming' when he meant 'I'm too sick to come'
Every warrior has said 'of course' when he meant 'it can't be'
Every warrior has said 'no problem' when he meant 'why me?'
Every warrior has said 'that's easy' when he meant 'that's hard enough'
Every warrior has said 'let's get going' when he meant 'I'm too tired'
Every warrior has said 'I'm good' when he meant 'i need some rest'
Every warrior has said 'it's too early' when he meant 'it's bedtime already'
Every warrior has said 'no comment' when he meant 'that's ridiculous'
Every warrior has said 'great' when he meant 'it's so much better this way'
Every warrior has said 'not yet' when he meant 'I'm already dying'
Every warrior has said 'piece of cake' when he meant 'bullshit'
Every warrior has said 'i can do it' when he meant 'i need some help'
Every warrior has said 'it's fine' when he meant 'we're doomed!'
Every warrior has said 'none' when he meant 'I'm busy'
Every warrior has said 'nothing' when he meant 'I'm losing my patience!'
That's warrior spirit! setting aside personal anguish and feelings

By Connie Tallada
Tommy Atkins' Way

He was battle-scarred and ugly with the marks of shot and shell,
And we knew that British Tommy had a stirring tale to tell,
So we asked him where he got it and what disarranged his face,
And he answered, blushing scarlet: 'In a nawsty little place.'

There were medals on his jacket, but he wouldn't tell us why.
'A bit lucky, gettin' this one,' was the sum of his reply.
He had fought a horde of Prussians with his back against the wall,
And he told us, when we questioned: 'H'it was nothing arfter h'all.'

Not a word of what he'd suffered, not a word of what he'd seen,
Not a word about the fury of the hell through which he'd been.
All he said was: 'When you're cornered, h'and you've got no plyce to go,
You've just got to stand up to it! You cawn't 'elp yourself, you know.

'H'it was just a bit unpleasant, when the shells were droppin' thick,'
And he tapped his leather leggins with his little bamboo stick.
'What did H'I do? Nothing, really! Nothing more than just my share;
Some one h'else would gladly do it, but H'I 'appened to be there.'

When this sturdy British Tommy quits the battlefields of earth
And St. Peter asks his spirit to recount his deeds of worth,
I fancy I can hear him, with his curious English drawl,
Saying: 'Nothing, nothing really, that's worth mentioning at h'all.'

By Edgar Albert Guest
6th-Feb-2019 02:00 am - D.O.A., 'General Strike'
General Strike

Shut it down, we're tired, yeah
Tired of workin', yeah
Workin' for nothin' we all want
What we got comin'?
All we need is a break
Come on, take a break
Everything is not all right
And there's no end in sight
You can call it, watcha like
Come on, stand up for your rights
Stand up, stand and unite
It's time for a general strike
We been out breakin' our backs
Been out workin' gettin' no slack
All week long, payin' those bills
That's just the people that still got a job
What about the rest of us on the Soup Line?
Stand up, stand and unite
It's time for a general strike
Stand up, stand and unite it's time

By 'D.O.A.'

6th-Feb-2019 01:00 am - Anise, 'Untitled'

What scares them most is
That nothing happens!
They are ready
For disturbances.
They have machine guns
And soldiers,
But this smiling silence
Is uncanny.
The business men
Don't understand
That sort of weapon . . .
It is your smile
That is upsetting
Their reliance
On artillery, brother!
It is the garbage wagons
That go along the street
Marked "Exempt
by Strike Committee."
It is the milk stations
That are getting better daily,
and the three hundred
WAR Veterans of Labor
Handling the crowds
Without guns,
For these things speak
Of a new power
and a new world
That they do not feel
At home in.

by Anise

The Seattle General Strike began February 6, 1919
They Want Us To Be Afraid

They want us to be afraid.
They want us to be afraid of leaving our homes.
They want us to barricade our doors
and hide our children.
Their aim is to make us fear life itself!

They want us to hate.
They want us to hate the other.
They want us to practice aggression
and perfect antagonism.
Their aim is to divide us all!

They want us to be inhuman.
They want us to throw out our kindness.
They want us to burn our love
and bury our hope.
Their aim is to take all our light!

They think their bricked walls
will separate us.
They think their damned bombs
will defeat us.

They are so ignorant they don’t understand
that my soul and your soul are old friends.
They are so ignorant they don’t understand
that when they cut you I bleed.

They are so ignorant they don’t understand
that we will never be afraid,
we will never hate,
and we will never be silent.
Let life be ours!

By Kamand Kojouri
4th-Feb-2019 01:00 am - Siegfried Sassoon, 'At The Cenotaph'
At The Cenotaph

I saw the Prince of Darkness, with his Staff,
Standing bare-headed by the Cenotaph:
Unostentatious and respectful, there
He stood, and offered up the following prayer.
'Make them forget, O Lord, what this Memorial
Means; their discredited ideas revive;
Breed new belief that War is purgatorial
Proof of the pride and power of being alive;
Men's biologic urge to readjust
The Map of Europe, Lord of Hosts, increase;
Lift up their hearts in large destructive lust;
And crown their heads with blind vindictive Peace.'
The Prince of Darkness to the Cenotaph
Bowed. As he walked away I heard him laugh.

By Siegfried Sassoon
3rd-Feb-2019 01:00 am - Charlotte Mew, 'The Cenotaph'
The Cenotaph

Not yet will those measureless fields be green again
Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed;
There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deep a stain,
Though for ever over it we may speak as proudly as we may tread.
But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrust of an
inward sword have more slowly bled,
We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, winged too, at the column's head.
And over the stairway, at the foot -- oh! here, leave desolate, passionate hands to spread
Violets, roses, and laurel, with the small, sweet, tinkling country things
Speaking so wistfully of other Springs,
From the little gardens of little places where son or sweetheart was born and bred.
In splendid sleep, with a thousand brothers
To lovers - to mothers
Here, too, lies he: Under the purple, the green, the red,
It is all young life: it must break some women's hearts to see
Such a brave, gay coverlet to such a bed!
Only, when all is done and said,
God is not mocked and neither are the dead
For this will stand in our Market-place -
Who'll sell, who'll buy?
(Will you or I
Lie each to each with the better grace?)
While looking into every busy whore's and huckster's face
As they drive their bargains, is the Face
Of God: and some young, piteous, murdered face

By Charlotte Mew
Cold Days of February

As I beside some winter's fire
Sat writing words strange and steady
Amongst my own internal choir
Came voices to my mind unready
Of those who died on either side
While friends cry o'er their bones unburied
Go sighing through the north east winds
These cold days of February

Some clerk with papers and his pen
Some banker with his poison pity
Some captain careless of his men
These fan the flames that maim the cities
And bigots in the name of Christ
By thorny paths obscure and muddy
Can fear to roam through years of cold
Bewailing how their hands are bloody

Whether they were from here or there
Their race and place I would not be heeding
The men who caused such bitterness
If hearts they have let their hearts be bleeding
Who neither for age nor the young child
Would turn the shot of the arms they carried
Go bear the guilt a weary ways
For the cold days of February

By Robin Williamson

2nd-Feb-2019 01:00 am - DragonForce, 'Starfire'

Outside on a winter's night as the rain begins to fall
There's a chill in the air and the howl of a wolf
While the rain beats at the door

Seven kings will ride on the wind up towards the mountains high
And the only sound that will break the air is the warrior's bitter cry

When the dawn of a new day will see the light
Then the strongest hearts grow old
And the warrior stands on top of the hill in the snow

Dark night with a glimmering light in the distance up ahead
In the forest they dwell with a misty spell no one heard what once was said
And the eagle fly through the clouds while earth bleeds dark and cold
When the voices of men will ring out again all creation shall unfold

When the colour of night will fade to light and the weakest hearts go cold
And the warrior stands on top of the hill in the snow

And we're standing one and all fighting till we fall
Hoping for a better day
Never giving in until we find the words, till we find the words to say
Until we find the words to say...

Burning starfire, shine in the sky
For the lives of great men, who stand by your side
When the night falls, on we will ride
For no lost souls will live on forever

Dark night on the valley blow still the horsemen follow through
It's a forest that leads to the foot of the hill that inside the magic holds
Seven strong they ride on along to the place where sorrow lies
And the shadows of the night will no longer hide all their mysteries come undone

When the colour of night will fade to light
and the weakest hearts go cold
And the warrior stands on top of the hill in the snow

And we're standing one and all fighting till we fall
Hoping for a better day
Never giving in until we find the words...till we find the words to say
Until we find the words to say...

Burning starfire, shine in the sky
For the lives of great men, who stand by your side
When the night falls, on we will ride
For no lost souls will live on forever

By 'DragonForce'

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