| George Herbert Clarke, ed. (1873–1953). A Treasury of War Poetry. 1917. |
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| 7. To America |
| | | By Charles Langbridge Morgan |
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| WHEN the fire sinks in the grate, and night has bent | |
| Close wings about the room, and winter stands | |
| Hard-eyed before the window, when the hands | |
| Have turned the book’s last page and friends are sleeping, | |
| Thought, as it were an old stringed instrument | 5 |
| Drawn to remembered music, oft does set | |
| The lips moving in prayer, for us fresh keeping | |
| Knowledge of springtime and the violet. | |
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| And, as the eyes grow dim with many years, | |
| The spirit runs more swiftly than the feet, | 10 |
| Perceives its comfort, knows that it will meet | |
| God at the end of troubles, that the dreary | |
| Last reaches of old age lead beyond tears | |
| To happy youth unending. There is peace | |
| In homeward waters, where at last the weary | 15 |
| Shall find rebirth, and their long struggle cease. | |
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| So, at this hour, when the Old World lies sick, | |
| Beyond the pain, the agony of breath | |
| Hard drawn, beyond the menaces of death, | |
| O’er graves and years leans out the eager spirit. | 20 |
| First must the ancient die; then shall be quick | |
| New fires within us. Brother, we shall make | |
| Incredible discoveries and inherit | |
| The fruits of hope, and love shall be awake. | |
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