No More Learning

VAN DYKE, HENRY. He has been Professor of English Literature in
Princeton University since 1900, and was United States Minister to the
Netherlands and Luxembourg from June, 1913, to December, 1916. He has
published several war poems. He is the first American to receive an
honorary degree at Oxford since the United States entered the war. The
degree of Doctor of Civil Law was conferred upon him on May 8, 1917.

VERNEDE, ROBERT ERNEST. He was educated at St. Paul's School and at St.
John's College, Oxford. On leaving college he became a professional
writer, producing several novels and two books of travel sketches, one
dealing with India, the other with Canada. He was also author of a
number of poems. At the outbreak of the war he enlisted in the
Nineteenth Royal Fusiliers, known as the Public Schools Battalion, and
received a commission as Second Lieutenant in the Rifle Brigade, in May,
1915. He went to France in November, 1915, and was wounded during the
battle of the Somme in September of the following year, but returned to
the front in December. He died of wounds on April 9, 1917, in his
forty-second year.

WATERHOUSE, GILBERT.
Lieutenant in the Second Essex Regiment. His war
writings include _Railhead, and other Poems_. He is reported "missing. "

WHARTON, EDITH. She has written _Fighting France_, etc.



INDEX OF FIRST LINES


A bowl of daffodils
A league and a league from the trenches--from the traversed maze of the
lines
A song of hate is a song of Hell
A sudden swirl of song in the bright sky
A wind in the world! The dark departs
A winged death has smitten dumb thy bells
All that a man might ask thou hast given me, England
All the hills and vales along
Alone amid the battle-din untouched
Ambassador of Christ you go
Around no fire the soldiers sleep to-night
As I lay in the trenches
As when the shadow of the sun's eclipse
At last there'll dawn the last of the long year
Awake, ye nations, slumbering supine

Because for once the sword broke in her hand
Before I knew, the Dawn was on the road
Beneath fair Magdalen's storied towers
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead
Broken, bewildered by the long retreat
Brothers in blood! They who this wrong began
Burned from the ore's rejected dross
By all the deeds to Thy dear glory done
By all the glories of the day
By day, by night, along the lines their dull boom rings

Champion of human honour, let us lave
Come, Death, I'd have a word with thee
Courage came to you with your boyhood's grace

Dark, dark lay the drifters, against the red west
Dawn off the Foreland--the young flood making
Dear son of mine, the baby days are over
Dreary lay the long road, dreary lay the town

Endless lanes sunken in the clay
England, in this great fight to which you go
England! where the sacred flame

Facing the guns, he jokes as well
Far fall the day when England's realm shall see
For all we have and are
Franceline rose in the dawning gray
From morn to midnight, all day through
Further and further we leave the scene

Give us a name to fill the mind
Great names of thy great captains gone before
Green gardens in Laventie
Guns of Verdun point to Metz

He said: Thou petty people, let me pass
Hearken, the feet of the Destroyer tread
Here is his little cambric frock
Here lies a clerk who half his life had spent
Here, where we stood together, we three men

I cannot quite remember. . . . There were five
I feel the spring far off, far off
I have a rendezvous with Death
I heard the rumbling guns, I saw the smoke
I know a beach road
I never knew you save as all men know
I pray for peace; yet peace is but a prayer
I saw her first abreast the Boston Light
I saw the spires of Oxford
I see across the chasm of flying years
I was out early to-day, spying about
I went upon a journey
I will die cheering, if I needs must die
If I should die, think only this of me
In a vision of the night I saw them
In lonely watches night by night
In the face of death, they say, he joked--he had no fear
In the glad revels, in the happy fetes
It is portentous, and a thing of state
It was silent in the street

Land of the desolate, Mother of tears
Land of the Martyrs--of the martyred dead
Led by Wilhelm, as you tell
Lest the young soldiers be strange in heaven
Low and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered

Men of my blood, you English men!
Men of the Twenty-first
Moon, slow rising, over the trembling sea-rim
Mother and child! Though the dividing sea
My leg? It's off at the knee
My name is Darino, the poet.