Asphodel, That Greeny Flower

BOOK 1

Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
        like a buttercup,
                        upon its branching stem--
save that it's green and wooden--
        I come, my sweet,
                        to sing to you.
We lived together
        A life filled, 
                        If you will,
with flowers, so that
        I was cheered
                        When I first came to know
that there were flowers also
        in hell.
                        Today
I'm filled with the fading memory of those flowers
        that we both loved,
                        even to this poor
colorless thing--
        I saw it--
                        when I was a child--
little prized among the living
        But the dead see,
                        asking among themselves:
What do I remember
        That was shaped
                        as this thing is shaped?
while our eyes
        fill with tears.
                        Of love, abiding love
it will be telling
        though too weak a wash of crimson
                        colors it
to make it wholy credible.
        There is something
                        something urgent
I have to say to you
        and you alone
                        but it must wait
while I drink in
        the joy of your approach,
                        perhaps for the last time.

To a Conscript of 1940

Qui n'a pas une fois désespéré de l'honneur, ne sera jamais un héros.
Georges Bernanos

A soldier passed me in the freshly fallen snow
His footsteps muffled, his face unearthly grey;
And my heart gave a sudden leap
As I gazed on a ghost of five-and-twenty years ago.

I shouted Halt! and my voice had the old accustom'd ring
And he obeyed it as it was obeyed
In the shrouded days when I too was one
Of an army of young men marching

Into the unknown. He turned towards me and I said:
`I am one of those who went before you
Five-and-twenty years ago: one of the many who never returned,
Of the many who returned and yet were dead.

We went where you are going, into the rain and the mud;
We fought as you will fight
With death and darkness and despair;
We gave what you will give—our brains and our blood.

We think we gave in vain. The world was not renewed.
There was hope in the homestead and anger in the streets
But the old world was restored and we returned
To the dreary field and workshop, and the immemorial feud

Of rich and poor. Our victory was our defeat.
Power was retained where power had been misused
And youth was left to sweep away
The ashes that the fires had strewn beneath our feet.

But one thing we learned: there is no glory in the deed
Until the soldier wears a badge of tarnish'd braid;
There are heroes who have heard the rally and have seen
The glitter of garland round their head.

Theirs is the hollow victory. They are deceived.
But you my brother and my ghost, if you can go
Knowing that there is no reward, no certain use
In all your sacrifice, then honour is reprieved.

To fight without hope is to fight with grace,
The self reconstructed, the false heart repaired.'
Then I turned with a smile, and he answered my salute
As he stood against the fretted hedge, which was like white lace.


Herbert Read