This is the ballad for Herman, the ballad of humble things, The hedge-side thistles that flower, the small brown lark that sings, And the stumbling flight of a beetle, and the dust on a butterfly's wings. The snails are out in the sunshine after the morning rain, And the wasps are whirring and buzzing round the mulberry tree again, And the ants are busy of course, working with might and main. 

 While the crickets leap, and rustle, and play at being blades of grass, And humble-bumble the bees go, lurching as they pass, And the flies are stupidly walking up the window-glass. 

 The sun is bright on the hedges, on thistle and bramble and briar, The columbine leaves are heart-shaped, and shine as bright as fire —And oh! the smell of the bracken, that's straight as Salisbury spire! 

 Life of the woods, life of the rivers, life of the trees, Life of the rich plain-grasses that seed to the morning breeze, And the thymy mountain-grasses June makes loud with bees. 

 This does not age nor alter; the low sharp song of the reeds As the evening wind goes over, and the fishing heron feeds On the still and shallow waters, salt with the floating weeds. 

 This does not change nor vanish; the mating calls of the springs, When April's green on the copses, and bright on the shining wings Of birds going backwards and forwards, while the whole green forest sings. 

 All is our sister and brother, as once St. Francis said; The little stones in the river, the bright sun overhead, And newts, and the spawn of fishes, and the unnamed mighty dead. 

 This is the ballad for Herman. O friend, may good befall! There is never a star so distant, there is never a creature small, But living and knowing and loving in our brain we hold them all. 

 

 

 FRANCE 

 April 1915 

 Great ever, with the hope that seeks the stars; The brain clear-cold, like ice; the soul like flame; The spirit beating at the physical bars; The reason guiding all—oh, there we name France! 

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