Verses of a V.A.D. 1

Verses of a V.A.D. 1

Verses of a V.A.D.

 

Author: Vera Mary Brittain

 

FOREWORD

THESE poems, by a writer for whom I have literary hopes, belong very

clearly to that new and vigorous type of poetry which has sprung from

the stress of the last few years and has its root in things done and

suffered rather than in things merely imagined.

 

Until lately our very belief in the saying that the poet is born and not

made proved that we had completely accepted poetry as coming only from

within, spun, as it were, out of our inner consciousness, and either

quite unhelped, or else only partially helped, by active experiences

from without. We have always understood, of course, that such an

experience as, for instance, the sudden flashing upon us of a magnetic

face as a stranger passes in the street might set aglow a train of

thought that would quicken and melt into feeling, and the feeling would,

in turn, need--and find--__EXPRESSION__ in poetry.

 

So far as this we have admitted that outward occurrences in the course

of our quickly flying days can become a source of poetical inspiration.

But, in spite of the pointing finger of Kipling, most of us clung

desperately to the verse that had its sole origin in imaginative emotion

until the blaze of war in the world illumined our souls and showed all

of us that out of our simplest practical work can be struck sparks of

real and great and rare divine fire.

 

All the poems in this little book are the outcome of things very deeply

felt. It is very difficult for me to write of them because where there

is pain uttered in them, it has almost always been my pain as well as

the author’s. One or two of the sonnets condense the __EXPRESSION__ of

losses that have meant a life’s upheaval. One or two, again, are

practically a concrete record of simple human things observed and

suffered and of duty strenuously done. Here there is no leisured

dreaming, but sheer experience, solid and stored up, like the honey that

a bee’s labour has stored.

 

But this practical quality, while it has so much that makes it rich and

valuable, has also the one conspicuous disadvantage that the work is

often done under conditions of strain and turmoil that tell against

perfection of method. Some of these _Verses of a V.A.D._ were written in

almost breathless intervals of severe and devoted duty. The poem

entitled “The German Ward” is especially an example of this. In such

circumstances, it is difficult to achieve any literary ornamentation and

least of all that particular kind of simpleness which is the highest

form of finished art. In the case of several of the poems, both these

qualities have been achieved; yet, because of the difficulties, I make

an appeal for considerateness and tender sympathy in judging these first

shy flowers of the heart and mind of a young girl who has worked

unceasingly and self-forgettingly for the good of others since the days

of stress began, and who in her personal destiny has suffered as, I

hope, very few have suffered.

 

MARIE CONNOR LEIGHTON.

 

 

 

 

CONTENTS

 

 

PAGE

 

AUGUST 1914 15

 

ST. PANCRAS STATION, AUGUST 1915 16

 

TO A FALLEN IDOL 17

 

TO MONSEIGNEUR 18

 

THE ONLY SON 19

 

PERHAPS---- 20

 

A MILITARY HOSPITAL 21

 

LOOKING WESTWARD 22

 

THEN AND NOW 24

 

MAY MORNING 25

 

THE TWO TRAVELLERS 27

 

ROUNDEL 28

 

THE SISTERS BURIED AT LEMNOS 29

 

IN MEMORIAM: G.R.Y.T. 31

 

A PARTING WORD 32

 

TO MY BROTHER 33

 

SIC TRANSIT---- 34

 

TO THEM 35

 

OXFORD REVISITED 36

 

THAT WHICH REMAINETH 37

 

THE GERMAN WARD 38

 

THE TROOP-TRAIN 40

 

TO MY WARD-SISTER 41

 

TO ANOTHER SISTER 42

 

“VENGEANCE IS MINE” 43

 

WAR 44

 

THE LAST POST 45

 

THE ASPIRANT 46

 

Acknowledgments are due to the Editor of _The Oxford Magazine_, in which

“May Morning” and “The Sisters buried at Lemnos” were first published.

 

 

 

 

AUGUST 1914

 

 

GOD said, “Men have forgotten Me;

The souls that sleep shall wake again,

And blinded eyes must learn to see.”

 

So since redemption comes through pain

He smote the earth with chastening rod,

And brought Destruction’s lurid reign;

 

But where His desolation trod

The people in their agony

Despairing cried, “There is no God.”

 

SOMERVILLE COLLEGE,

OXFORD.

 

 

 

 

ST. PANCRAS STATION, AUGUST 1915

 

 

ONE long, sweet kiss pressed close upon my lips,

One moment’s rest on your swift-beating heart,

And all was over, for the hour had come

For us to part.

 

A sudden forward motion of the train,

The world grown dark although the sun still shone,

One last blurred look through aching tear-dimmed eyes--

And you were gone.

 

 

 

 

TO A FALLEN IDOL

 

 

O YOU who sought to rend the stars from Heaven

But rent instead your too-ambitious heart,

Know that with those to whom Love’s joy is given

You have not, nor can ever have, a part.

 

A nation’s loyalty might have been your glory,

And men have blessed your name from shore to shore,

But you have set the seal upon your story,

And must go hence, alone for evermore.

 

 

 

 

TO MONSEIGNEUR

 

(R.A.L., LIEUTENANT, WORCESTERS)

 

 

NONE shall dispute Your kingship, nor declare

Another could have held the place You hold,

For though he brought me finer gifts than gold,

And laid before my feet his heart made bare

Of all but love for me, and sighed despair

If I but feigned my favours to withhold,

And would repudiate as sadly cold

The proud and lofty manner that You wear,

 

He would not be my pure and stainless knight

Of heart without reproach or hint of fear,

Who walks unscathed amid War’s sordid ways

By base desire or bloodshed’s grim delight,

But ever holds his hero’s honour dear--

Roland of Roncesvalles in modern days.