# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Hereafter

HEREAFTER
IT'S Autumn-time on Salisbury Plain.
Let it be Autumn-time again When life is cured of this black pain And I go home, go home again, By Highgate on the Hill. ​For there's a little wood I know Where all the trees of wonder grow, And shadows like cool waters flow 'Twixt ivied banks on beds of moss,— Mingle and merge and fade and cross. And you may come and you may go And never in that holy place Look upon a German face.
The trees have all grown as they will In the wood by Highgate on the Hill: Great oaks with many a lichen sash And elm and birch, and may and ash, In twos and threes they stand together In all the splendid autumn weather. And in between and left and right Are laurel bushes green and bright, Acorns and chestnuts patter down On leaves all gold and red and brown, All gold and red and brown and grey, That dance the afternoon away.
October's quick and golden rains Wander in rivers down the lanes, Or make, in hollows, little ponds Where pebbles shine like diamonds. From breakfast-time till after tea In ev'ry branch of ev'ry tree The starlings, like a lot of boys, For love of life make heaps of noise: Such noise,—there is no gladder sound In all the glad year's tuneful round; Such placid anger, peaceful rage— What actors on what airy stage, What comedy for what a wage! Children and birds and autumn trees,— The world were well content with these.
When bloody William and his son Are safely dead at last, and one ​May go believing there's no dearth Of glory yet upon the Earth,— A glory, not of fire and smoke And things that burst and blind and choke, A wonder, not of eyes that turn To some new thing to blast and burn, A wisdom, not of thrusts and stabs And stripes and stars and scarlet tabs, A worship, not of poisoned breath And little children done to death,— These shall delight my soul at last When then is now and now is past, Where the many-scented dews distil In the wood by Highgate on the Hill. There I shall find forgotten themes, And empty husks of faded dreams Whose seed, far scattered, soon or late, Shall find soil and germinate; Remember I am still a boy And haply rediscover joy, Youth and all that follows after Vanished vision and lost laughter. All the wood will shout and sing At my great remembering, Ev'ry leaf will be a voice Tuned to welcome and rejoice, Sky and wind and blade and tree Stretch forth hands to welcome me.
Deep in the wood lie hidden springs Of half of life's delightful things. A stirring leaf, a bird in flight Will start soft flames of coloured light That leap and dance and flash and burn Through waving grass and feathery fern. Music will tell an ancient tale When moonrise wakes a nightingale. Here is the rich, sweet smell of earth, Movement and melody and mirth: ​Such mirth as flashes from the eyes Of Gabriel in Paradise, Such melody as when he sings, Such movement as his flaming wings, For woods and Paradise are one When seen beneath an autumn sun. I shall be home again and hear Sounds that subdue the soul's worst fear. I shall be home again and find All that is pitiful and kind, Healing for nerves left torn and sore By red monotony of War.
O Wood by Highgate on the Hill, When fighting's over be there still!
Ronald Lewis Carton