Over the wheatfields the sky was shot with light
And there was one large star.
The Pentland Hills were full of purple night.
I heard afar
The rush of a motor car,
And as I passed by the hedge the corn leaned out
Wind-impelled, and touched my hand about,
The star as my own
And the fields full-grown;
I looked at the wheat and said
‘At Liège the gold is red,
And to-night how still the dead must lie
With their faces stark to the open sky
Or dreadfully earthward turned.’
Over the corn the wind mourned.
I looked at the star and cried,
‘Of Heaven the doors are very wide,
And God has hung a little light
For stragglers who fall in to-night.’