Hill 60

As some far swimmer, turning, views once more

England’s white cliffs, and strongly cleaves t’ward shore,

But, tide-encumbered, faints; so far and dear

Thy crystal arms and pillared throat appear,

Love, to thy soldier who makes earth his bed

In this grey catacomb of unnamed dead.

Thy voice, o’er tossing seas of eves and dawns,

Comes like dim music heard on magic lawns;

And, when in prayer thou kneelest, this grim brow

Feels the cool benison of hands which thou

Wouldst often grant. Now know I ’twas not vain

Our love, whose memory softens present pain.

C. J. N.

“HILL 60”