IV

The pause is over. They part from each other, sift out; The backs trot out to their stations, the forwards spread; The captains beckon with hands, and the ball goes off To volleys and answering volleys of harsher cheers; For the top of the hill is past, we course to the close.

We've a three-point lead. Can we keep it? It isn't enough.

We have always heard their three-quarters were better than ours, If they once get the ball. They have got it, he runs, he pa.s.ses, The centre dodges, is tackled, pa.s.ses in time To the other centre who goes like a bird to the left And flings it out to the wing. The goal is open; He has only to run as he can. No, the back is across, He has missed him; he has him; they topple, head over heels, And the ball b.u.mps along into touch. They are stuck on our line; Scrum after scrum, with those dangerous threes standing waiting, Threat after threat forced back; a save, a return; And the same thing over again, till the ball goes out Almost unnoticed, and before we can see what is done, That centre has kicked, he has thought of the four points, The ball soars, slackens, keeps upright with effort, Then floats between posts and falls, ignored, to the ground, Its grandeur gone, while the touch-judge flaps his flag, And the mult.i.tude becomes an enormous din Which dies as the game resumes, and then rises again, As battle of cry of triumph and counter-cry, Defiant, like great waves surging against each other.

They work to the other corner, they stay there long; They push and wheel, there are runs that come to nothing, Till the noise wanes, and a curious silence comes.

They lead by a point, their crowd is sobered now, Anxious still lest a sudden chance should come, Or a sudden resource of power in mysterious foes Which may dash them again from their new precarious peak, Whilst we in our hearts are aware of the chilling touch Of loss, of a fatal thing irrevocable, Feel the time fly to the dreaded last wail of the whistle, And see our team as desperate waves that dash Against a wall of rock, to be scattered in spray.

Yet fervour comes back, for the players have no thought for the past Except as a goad to new effort, not they will be chilled: Fiercer and faster they fight, a grimness comes Into shoving and running and tackling and handing off.

We are heeling the ball now cleanly, time after time Our half picks it up and instantly jabs it away, And the beautiful swift diagonal quarter-line Tips it across for the wing to go like a stag Till he's cornered and falls and the gate swings shut again.

Thirty fighting devils, ten thousand throats, Thundering joy at each pa.s.s and tackle and punt, Yet the consciousness grows that the time approaches the end, The threat of conclusion grows like a spreading tree And casts its shadow on all the anxious people, And is fully known when they stop as a man's knocked out And limps from the field with his arms round two comrades' necks.

The gradual time seems to have suddenly leapt....

And all this while the unheeded winter sky Has faded, and the air gone bluer and mistier.

The players, when they drift away to a corner Distant from us, seem to have left our world.

We see the struggling forms, tangling and tumbling, We hear the noise from the featureless ma.s.s around them, But the dusk divides. Finality seems to have come.

Nothing can happen now. The attention drifts.

There's a pause; I become a separate thing again, Almost forget the game, forget my neighbours, And the noise fades in my ears to a dim rumour.

I watch the lines and colours of field and buildings, So simple and soft and few in the vapoury air, I am held by the brightening orange lights of the matches Perpetually p.r.i.c.king the haze across the ground, And the scene is tinged with a quiet melancholy, The harmonious sadness of twilight on willowed waters, Still avenues or harbours seen from the sea.

Yet a louder shout recalls me, I wake again, Find there are two minutes left, and it's nearly over, See a few weaklings already walking out, Caring more to avoid a crush with the crowd Than to give the last stroke to a ritual of courtesy And a work of intangible art. But we're all getting ready, Hope gone, and fear, except in the battling teams.

Regret ... a quick movement of hazy forms, Oh quiet, oh look, there is something happening, Sudden one phantom form on the other wing Emerges from nothingness, is singled out, Curving in a long sweep like a flying gull, Through the thick fog, swifter as borne by wind, Swerves at the place where the corner-flag must be, And runs, by Heaven he's over! and runs, and runs, And our hearts leap, and our sticks go up in the air And our hats whirl, and we lose ourselves in a yell For a try behind the posts. We have beaten them!

V

Outside; and a mob hailing cabs, besieging the station, Sticks, overcoats, scarves, bowler hats, intensified faces, Rushes, apologies, voices: "Simpson's at seven,"

"Hallo, Jim," "See you next term," "I've just seen old Peter."

They go to their homes, to catch trains, all over the city, All over England; or, many, to make a good night of it, Eat oysters, drink more than usual, dispute of the match.

For the match is all over, and what, being done, does it matter?

What happened last year? I was here; I should know, but I don't.

Next year there will be another, with another result, Just such another crowd, just as excited.

And after next year, for a year and a year and a year, Till customs have changed and things crumbled and all this strife Is a dim word from the past. Why, even to-night, When the last door has been locked, the last groundsman will go, Leaving that field which was conquered and full of men, With darkened houses around, void and awake, Silently talking to the silent travelling moon: "The day pa.s.sed. They have gone again. They will die."

To-night in the moon the neighbouring roofs will lie Lonely and still, all of their dwellers in bed; The phantom stands will glisten, the goal-posts rise Slanting their shadows across the gra.s.s, as calm As though they had never challenged an eager swarm, Or any ball had made their crossbars quiver.

Clouds will pa.s.s, and the city's murmur fade, And the open field await its destiny Of transient invaders coming and going.

What was the point of it? Why did the heart leap high Putting reason back, to watch that fugitive play?

Why not? We must all distract ourselves with toys.

Not a brick nor a heap remains, the more durable product Of all that; effort and pain. Yet, sooner or later, As much may be said of any human game, War, politics, art, building, planting and ploughing, The explorer's freezing, the astronomer's searching of stars, The philosopher's fight through the thickening webs of thought, And the writing of poems: a hand, a stir and a sinking.

And so, no more, of the general game of the Race, That cannot know of its origin or its end, But strives, for their own sake, its courage and skill To increase, till Frost or a Flying Flame calls "Time!"

I have seen this day men in the beauty of movement, A gallant jaw set, the form of a hero that flew, Cunning, a selfless flinging of self in the fray, Strength, compa.s.sion, control, the obeying of laws, Victory, and a struggle against defeat.

I think that the Power that gave us the bodies we have, Can only be praised by our use of the things He gave, That we are not here to turn our backs to the sun, Or to scorn the delight of our limbs. And for those who have eyes The beauty of this is the same as the beauty of flowers, And of eagles and lions and mountains and oceans and stars, And I care not, but rather am glad that the thought will recur That in Egypt the muscles moved under the shining skins As here, and in Greece where Olympian champions died, And in isles long ago, where never a record was kept.

And now I'll go home, and open a bottle of port, And think upon beauty and G.o.d and the wonder of love, That laughs at the shadow of Death, and my vanished youth, And the throbbing heart that beats its own drum to the grave, Returning absurdly again to the fact that we won, Content to let darkness deepen, and stars shine.