The World was Dead.

The world was dead; / It rolled, a cold, black sphere, in icy space. / Through which the gleaming stars their blue light shed / In silent mockery at its blind, wild race.

Gone was its splendour; / Nor more the sun danced free o'er foam-white waves, / Waked purple hills with golden fingers tender, / Or brought a fleeting joy to pallid slaves / Bowed down beneath the terror of the night. / It only lit a barren, rocky ball. / That spun, beneath its silent pall, / Along its untraced path without respite.

But not alone / For even in this hour of death, / When, low, amidst the dust of temples, moan / Ruin's pale daughters, with fast-dying breath, / The moon, no more in silver radiance dressed, / But dark and sombre-clad, appears / To circle round like lonely bird on plundered nest, / And tireless travels down the years.

R.H.P.

Rondeau of Despair.

Full well we know that sorrow and despair / Lie hidden in the meshes of your hair; / How for a while your passionate breathings play / About our souls before you turn away / With headless eyes, and heart which cannot care / Or feel for all the bitterness we wear / As down the weary way of years we fare. / How little will avail all words we say / Full well we know. / Your heavy hair enfolds us and we tear / Our souls within its web and lay them bare / Beneath your smile which rends but will not slay. / For grief is all our guerdon, and dismay / And anguish wait for all who find you fair / Full well we know.

L.H.

Mirage.

The sea and the sky like a sapphire .... / afar float dim, moon-horned towers .... / White foam-threads gleam below.

R.H.P.

BC Archives, MS-2570 Box 1 File 6 MIST, Henry Masterman Ruhleben magazine, Prisoners’ Pie, 1916