This is quite a long poem which Auntie Babs wrote in March 1916.  Entitled “The Spring After” I see from the notebook that it was published in “The Quest” 1916.  I am not sure whether this was a newspaper or a magazine and have not had much success in searching online.

The Spring After

Oh, my beloved, Spring is here again –
The wayward English Spring you loved so well.
But you, alas, lie cold in yonder grave
And yet, not you – you have gone on – but that
Which once I knew as you, the dear familiar smile
All, all the dear warm, loving, human you
Ah, my beloved, in your narrow grave
Lies all that made life beautiful to me.

Yet even now I cannot quite believe
That I shall no more hear your step upon the stair
Or hear you call “Come for a walk with me”.
Oh why did I so often answer “No”?
(It was too hot…too cold…or I was busy then)
And disappointed you would turn away and go alone.
Ah, my dear love, I dare not think
How little I did then to comfort you.

Today I went your favourite walk
Across the Downs and home along the shore.
It looked so peaceful in the soft Spring light
‘Twas difficult to realise that only
A little further than mine eyes could see
The guns were roaring forth their song of death
With dread monotony – those cruel guns
That laid you in the dust and left me desolate.

Oh, my dear love, bend down a listening ear
For sometimes I’m afraid that when death calls
For me, and I shall journey hence
You will have gone too far in that fair land
Where souls are perfected, for me to come to you
So, my beloved, promise this one thing
That when I lie all passionless and still
You will come back and lead my poor soul forth

And thus with hands close clasped in spirit land
We will ascend the golden stair
And kneel before the mercy seat and pray
That we may thus together journey on
Until we reach the perfect peace of heaven.

Beatrice Helen Poole
July 1916

Many of Auntie Babs’ poems were noticeably driven by her strong Christian faith and some do not stand the test of time, but it is still good to see them in print.

• I first visited Auntie Babs when she lived in London and when she came to live in Penn, Wolverhampton with her nephew Christopher Poole and his wife Mary,  she used to tell me stories about her life as a companion to a lady called Miss Fisher.  I got the impression that they lived quite insular lives yet knew many artistic people, writers, painters and musicians who became quite well known. They used to go to Brighton quite regularly.  I wish I had written down all the people she spoke about.  I found two poems in the notebooks  which were particularly about London. The first called A Remembrance is dated 1912 then In May 1914 she also wrote a poem called Lights of London. She obviously loved living there. She also used to talk fondly about The Sussex Downs and wrote a poem about them which I will include in another blog.
  
• A Remembrance
• A moon o’er head curtained in spangled blue
  Deep shadows flung across a village street.
  A little church guarded by sombre yew
  And lofty elms where rooks were wont to meet.
• A quaint old house with moss embroidered tiles
  A well loved face that I shall see no more.
  A long white road winding up hill for miles
  The lilt of waves upon a distant shore.
• What called you from the long forgotten past?
  Oh fragrant scene, where peace and beauty meet
  A moon o’er head and soft dark shadows cast
  Of gabled roofs across a London street.
• B H Poole
  1912
• Lights o’ London
• Lights o’London, Lights o’London
  Piercing through the river’s gloom
  Like small golden spiral stairways
  Leading to a magic room.
• Round quiet squares and over bridges
  Far you fling your band of light
  Stretching on a mute procession
  Till you vanish out of sight.
• Standing like a gleaming army
  Up each side of every street
  On and on through miles of darkness
  Till the last lights seem to meet.
• Magic city by Thames river
  Wrapt in sable mystery
  Sunlight, moonlight, starlight, lamplight
  There’s no place on earth like thee.
• B.H. Poole
  May 1914
• Sometimes when I am reading through these notebooks, I am overwhelmed with the words and the emotion that comes from them. Not all well written but all from the heart, they are a real treasure and I feel privileged to be the owner of the books, if not the original owner of the poems.