Explore "Songs of Angus: FRINGFORD BROOK" by Violet Jacob on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The willows stand by Fringford brook, / From Fringford up to Hethe, / Sun on their cloudy silver heads, / And shadow underneath.
They ripple to the silent airs / That stir the lazy day, / Now whitened by their passing hands, / Now turned again to grey.
The slim marsh-thistle's purple plume / Droops tasselled on the stem, / The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame / The grass that harbours them;
Long drowning tresses of the weeds / Trail where the stream is slow, / The vapoured mauves of water-mint / Melt in the pools below;
Serenely soft September sheds / On earth her slumberous look, / The heartbreak of an anguished world / Throbs not by Fringford brook.
All peace is here. Beyond our range, / Yet 'neath the selfsame sky, / The boys that knew these fields of home / By Flemish willows lie.
They waded in the sun-shot flow, / They loitered in the shade, / Who trod the heavy road of death, / Jesting and unafraid.
Peace! What of peace? This glimpse of peace / Lies at the heart of pain, / For respite, ere the spirit's load / We stoop to lift again.
O load of grief, of faith, of wrath, / Of patient, quenchless will, / Till God shall ease us of your weight / We'll bear you higher still!
O ghosts that walk by Fringford brook, / 'Tis more than peace you give, / For you, who knew so well to die, / Shall teach us how to live.