Fringford Brook

Violet Jacob 1863 – 1946

The willows stand by Fringford brook,

From Fringford up to Hethe,

Sun on their cloudy silver heads,

And shadow underneath.

They ripple to the silent airs

That stir the lazy day,

Now whitened by their passing hands,

Now turned again to grey.

The slim marsh-thistle's purple plume

Droops tasselled on the stem,

The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame

The grass that harbours them;

Long drowning tresses of the weeds

Trail where the stream is slow,

The vapoured mauves of water-mint

Melt in the pools below;

Serenely soft September sheds

On earth her slumberous look,

The heartbreak of an anguished world

Throbs not by Fringford brook.

All peace is here. Beyond our range,

Yet 'neath the selfsame sky,

The boys that knew these fields of home

By Flemish willows lie.

They waded in the sun-shot flow,

They loitered in the shade,

Who trod the heavy road of death,

Jesting and unafraid.

Peace! What of peace? This glimpse of peace

Lies at the heart of pain,

For respite, ere the spirit's load

We stoop to lift again.

O load of grief, of faith, of wrath,

Of patient, quenchless will,

Till God shall ease us of your weight

We'll bear you higher still!

O ghosts that walk by Fringford brook,

'Tis more than peace you give,

For you, who knew so well to die,

Shall teach us how to live.

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