For this first day of the season, two century-old poems of the Great War, both titled "Autumn, 1917," both written by women on the homefront. The first, by Helena Coleman, the pride of Newcastle, Ontario, is found in her chapbook Marching Men (Toronto: Dent, 1917):
AUTUMN, 1917
(A.L.T.)
We know by many a tender token
When Indian-summer days have come,
By rustling leaves in branches oaken
And by the cricket's sleepy hum.
By aspen leaves no longer shaken,
And by the river's silvered thread,
The oriole's swinging cup forsaken,
Emptied of music overhead.
By long slant lines on field and fallow.
By mellowing portals of the wood,
By silences that seem to hallow
Inviting us to solitude....
Are there young hearts in France recalling
These dream-filled, blue Canadian days,
When gold and scarlet flames are falling
From beech and maple set ablaze?
Pluck they again the pale, wild aster,
The bending plume of golden-rod?
And do their exiled hearts beat faster
Roaming in thought their native sod?
Dream they of Canada crowned and golden,
Flushed with her Autumn diadem?
In years to come when time is olden,
Canada's dream shall be of them —
Shall be of them who gave for others
The ardour of their radiant years; —
Your name in Canada's heart, my brothers,
Shall be remembered long with tears!
We give you vision back for vision,
Forgetting not the price you paid,
O bearers of the world's decision,
On whom the nations' debt was laid!
No heart can view these highways glowingMiss Coleman's poem also features in John W. Garvin's Canadian Poems of the Great War (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1917), in which we find another "Autumn, 1917." This one comes from the pen of Elizabeth Roberts MacDonald, sister to fellow poets Sir Charles God Damn, Theodore Goodrich, and William Carman Roberts.
With gold transmuted from the clod,
But crowns your glorious manhood, knowing
You gave us back our faith in God.
AUTUMN, 1917
The rain and the leaves togetherGo drifting over the world;Autumn has slipped his tetherAnd his flag of death unfurled.
'Tomorrow — tomorrow — tomorrow — 'Hear how the grey wind cries!Tomorrow the stark bare branches,Tomorrow the steel-cold skies.
The garnet leaves and the goldenAre tossed and trampled and thrownAs the hopes of man when the trumpetsOf crimson war are blown.
Unleashed are the hounds of anguishThat hunt the heart of manTo tear its dream-bright garments,To rend its valiant plan;
Honour and valour, the pricelessBlood of our heroes slain, —Shall their offering all be wasted,Their sacrifice be vain?
No; for the great idealFor which our hearts have bledLives — by each field of honour,Lives — by our countless dead;
And a wind of Life is blowing,A golden trumpet calls:—'Rally — rally — rally, —Till the dark fortress falls!'
Related posts:
a War Poem by Sergeant Stanley B. Fullerton, Returned Soldier
Timely Verse from Christmas a Century Past:
Elizabeth Roberts MacDonald's 'A Christmas Star
Timely Verse from Christmas a Century Past:
Elizabeth Roberts MacDonald's 'A Christmas Star
