Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
The WindsIna Kitson Clark
‘She of her want did cast in all that she had.’
‘O
Changing from South to North, from heat to cold,
Many and strange the things that you discover,
Changing from West to East, from new to old.
‘Oh! foolish mother, dreaming winds would tell!
The winds are deaf with thunder, dumb with grieving.
Who heeds a boy when all the world is hell?
Tatter the bitter smoke that hides the shame;
They mingle with the dying’s painful breathing,
They fan the smouldering cities into flame.
Where corn is garnered, cattle led to stall;
Where mills still run and bells of prayer are prating,
Shadow and fear of death hangs over all.
Our sentry-ships our world-wide empire range;
From sea to sea the winds rush, always freighted
With word and password that our ships exchange.
Armies of warriors from the far, far East;
From far, far West through leagues of cornland singing
They found men hastening on the behest.
Who drown at sea, or landward fighting fall,
The winds have heard the voice of women crying,
“Where is my love who, dying, takes my all?”’
My boy is proud to serve the selfsame State.
Proud though he die, and all but I forget him,
I will not grudge him, for the Cause is great.’