Ten O'Clock No More [1]

The wind has thrown The boldest of trees down. Now disgraced it lies, Naked in spring beneath the drifting skies, Naked and still. It was the wind So furious and blind That scourged half England through, Ruining the fairest where most fair it grew By dell and hill. And springing here, The black clouds dragging near, Against this lonely elm Thrust all his strength to maim and overwhelm In one wild shock. As in the deep Satisfaction of dark sleep The tree her dream dreamed on, And woke to feel the wind's arms round her thrown And her head rock. And the wind raught Her ageing boughs and caught Her body fast again. Then in one agony of age, grief, pain, She fell and died. Her noble height, Branches that loved the light, Her music and cool shade, Her memories and all of her is dead On the hill side. But the wind stooped. With madness tired, and drooped In the soft valley and slept. While morning strangely round the hush'd tree crept And called in vain. The birds fed where The roots uptorn and bare Thrust shameful at the sky; And pewits round the tree would dip and cry With the old pain. "Ten o'clock's gone!" Said sadly every one. And mothers looking thought Of sons and husbands far away that fought:-- And looked again.