Darkness—expectant, discreet— Only a lamp here and there, Gloom in the clattering street, Stygian black in the square; Dazzling fascias and fronts, Scintillant sky-scrapers banished, Snuffed and shut down are the spangles of Town. London has vanished. Only a few months ago London woke up every night; Dances or “Chemin” or Show, Festival vistas or light. Everywhere glitter and glare, Junket and revelry keeping. Yes, but despite the laughter and light, London was sleeping. Searchlights are probing the skies, Eastward their streamers are trailed; Masked are the city’s bright eyes— Even the tramcars are veiled. Cockneys turn in at eleven, “Stop Press” thirst finally slaked. Turn the lights out. Now, without doubt, London’s awake!
Jessie Pope - 1868-1941
The call came in the stormy night, Beneath a stranger’s sky. The soldier of a life-long fight, Still fighting, went to die. His country’s honour was his goal; Patient, unswerving, brave, His mind, his heart, his work, his soul— His very all, he gave. He toiled to rouse us from our sleep, And now he takes his rest, And we—it is not ours to weep, But follow his behest. ’Tis ours to make this matter plain— That though our “Bobs” has gone, Though dust returns to dust again— His soul goes marching on.