Impressions

THE villagers come walking down the road;
A funeral procession scuffles by;
The bearers bow bare heads beneath their load;
A woman scans my window on the sly.
On to the open grave! Grief is strange to me.
I waste my years sailing along the sea.

I pass a neighbor’s house in early morn;
The window silhouettes the doctor’s head;
The tavern said some child was to be born,
And some old thing — bed-ridden years — was dead.
Up to the quiet room! Birth is nought to me.
I waste my years sailing along the sea.

The old trees are falling one by one.
The sexton with his choleric blue eye
And bushy beard — how his girls used to run
From me in the woods, pretending to be shy!
They are married now, and have forgotten me.
I waste my years sailing along the sea.

The old trees are falling. Parson’s down,
Him with the long black cloak and humble gaze.
Making up poems with a gentle frown,
Walking alone in twilight, he had happy days.
Now he walks with God. How does it fare with me?
I waste my years sailing along the sea.

The Squire, too. His sons are home from France,
Major and Captain. Now the place is theirs.
Out in the car all day, every night a dance.
They have seen death, and dodged. They are the heirs.
Major and Captain. They think nought of me.
I waste my years sailing along the sea.

Away to Brighton on a Friday night.
The train is full of Jews and men on leave,
Lusty and urgent, fortunate and bright,
With arrogant women whom nothing can bereave.
They can enjoy their sins. But what of me?
I waste my years sailing along the sea.

The lamp-posts in the village street are dark;
A flapper titters sweetly as I pass.
She loves a uniform, the pictures, and a lark —
Something alive moves in the garden grass.
Something alive moves in the heart of me —
I waste my years sailing along the sea.

Down in the valley where the stream in flood
Spreads round the choking growth of reeds and clay,
A soldier and a girl together stood.
She wore no ring. He kissed her fears away.
O virtue drear! No woman mourns for me.
I waste my years sailing along the sea.

Beneath the churchyard firs I stand alone:
‘Dearly Beloved’ — my father’s name is dim,
The sides are burst. Green stains run down the stone.
‘For those in peril’ — that was carved for him.
O stanch old heart, who toiled so long for me!
I waste my years sailing along the sea.