But Never Like This Before

But Never Like This Before A Poem for Henry Allingham, 1896—

Never a funeral so glorious Have I seen, than Victoria rolled past— Entombed in memory for mirth and measure serene.

Twas mother who wanted me to refrain, Yet on her deathbed I did but remain, Off to the Great Yarnmouth, Yip Yip Yaphank, To become a number, non-human, just rank. There, I met my future—my love, my wife. Dorothy—I do love you—better than my life.

But never a funeral so glorious Have I seen, than my brethren shot down— Bloodstained in pride for this country and its King.

Sweet muse Berlin at the Globe still echoed Within my tir’d brain, triggering a burst Of melodious light and pain. Whitened Blue and ivory mortar-fire twinkled, Dancing shadows on Her wantonly dormant night, Ringing deeply into the ears of many recent dead—And Still the Windsor-battle raged downward and round. No, ne’er a funeral so glorious

Have I seen, than my wife, my children— Buried beneath the worms of trust and dreams.

No, I have not felt pain like this before, The joy in life, the still joy of death. My brothers fell into darkened waters, And garden fields. But my wife, ma Cherie Lies between two daughters, between two still hopes. Yes once I felt pain, but never like this before.

Vive la reine. Vive le rêve. Vive l’amour.