FEBRUARY, 1917 <br /> <br />I never thought again to hear <br />The Oxford thrushes singing clear, <br />Amid the February rain, <br />Their sweet, indomitable strain. <br /> <br />A wintry vapor lightly spreads <br />Among the trees, and round the beds <br />Where daffodil and jonquil sleep, <br />Only the snowdrop wakes to weep. <br /> <br />It is not springtime yet. Alas, <br />What dark, tempestuous days must pass, <br />Till England's trial by battle cease, <br />And summer comes again with peace. <br /> <br />The lofty halls, the tranquil towers, <br />Where Learning in untroubled hours <br />Held her high court, serene in fame, <br />Are lovely still, yet not the same. <br /> <br />The novices in fluttering gown <br />No longer fill the ancient town, <br />But fighting men in khaki drest-- <br />And in the Schools the wounded rest. <br /> <br />Ah, far away, 'neath stranger skies <br />Full many a son of Oxford lies, <br />And whispers from his warrior grave, <br />"I died to keep the faith you gave." <br /> <br />The mother mourns, but does not fail, <br />Her courage and her love prevail <br />O'er sorrow, and her spirit hears <br />The promise of triumphant years. <br /> <br />Then sing, ye thrushes, in the rain <br />Your sweet indomitable strain. <br />Ye bring a word from God on high <br />And voices in our hearts reply.<br /><br />Henry Van Dyke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-oxford-thrushes/
