Reunion in War

    THE windmill in his smock of white
        Stared from his little crest,
    Like a slow smoke was the moonlight
        As I went like one possessed

    Where the glebe path makes shortest way;
        The stammering wicket swung.
    I passed amid the crosses grey
        Where opiate yew-boughs hung.

    The bleached grass shuddered into sighs,
        The dogs that knew this moon
    Far up were harrying sheep, the cries
        Of hunting owls went on.

    And I among the dead made haste
        And over flat vault stones
    Set in the path unheeding paced
        Nor thought of those chill bones.

    Thus to my sweetheart's cottage I,
        Who long had been away,
    Turned as the traveler turns away
        To brooks to moist his clay.

    Her cottage stood like a dream, so clear
        And yet so dark; and now
    I thought to find my more than dear
        And if she'd kept her vow.

    Old house dog from his barrel came
        Without a voice, and knew
    And licked my hand; all seemed the same
        To the moonlight and the dew.

    By the white damson then I took
        The tallest osier wand
    And thrice upon her casement strook,
        And she, so fair, so fond,

    Looked out, and saw in wild delight
        And tiptoed down to me,
    And cried in silent joy that night
        Beside the bullace tree.

    O cruel time to take away,
        And worse to bring again;
    Why slept not I in Flanders clay
        With all the murdered men?

    For I had changed, or she had changed,
        Though true loves both had been,
    Even while we kissed we stood estranged
        With the ghosts of war between.

    We had not met but a moment ere
        War baffled Joy, and cried,
    " Love's but a madness, a burnt flare;
        The shell's a madman's bride."

    The cottage stood, poor stone and wood,
        Poorer than stone stood I;
    Then from her kind arms moved in a mood
        As grey as the care clothed sky.

    The roosts were stirred, each little bird
        Called fearfully out for day;
    The church clock with his dead voice whirred
        As if he bade me stay.

    To trace with madman's fingers all
        The letters on the stones
    Where thick beneath the twitch roots crawl
        In dead men's envied bones.

        Edmund Blunden