Anonymous British

A Place Of Arms

I knew a garden green and fair, Flanking our London river's tide, And you would think, to breathe its air And roam its virgin lawns beside, All shimmering in their velvet fleece, "Nothing can hurt this haunt of Peace. " No trespass marred that close retreat; Privileged were the few that went Pacing its walks with measured beat On legal contemplation bent; And Inner Templars used to say: "How well our garden looks to-day!" But that which changes all has changed This guarded pleasaunce, green and fair, And soldier-ranks therein have ranged And trod its beauties hard and bare, Have tramped and tramped its fretted floor, Learning the discipline of War. And many a moon of Peace shall climb Above that mimic field of Mars, Before the healing touch of Time With springing green shall hide its scars; But Inner Templars smile and say: "Our barrack-square looks well to-day!" Good was that garden in their eyes, Lovely its spell of long-ago; Now waste and mired its glory lies, And yet they hold it dearer so, Who see beneath the wounds it bears A grace no other garden wears. For still the memory, never sere, But fresh as after fallen rain, Of those who learned their lesson here And may not ever come again, Gives to this garden, bruised and browned, A greenness as of hallowed ground. This poem first appeared in the magazine Punch during the 1914-1918 World War. JS