Fringford Brook

The willows stand by Fringford brook,
    From Fringford up to Hethe,
Sun on their cloudy silver heads,
    And shadow underneath.

They ripple to the silent airs
    That stir the lazy day,
Now whitened by their passing hands,
    Now turned again to grey.

The slim marsh-thistle's purple plume
    Droops tasselled on the stem,
The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame
    The grass that harbours them;

Long drowning tresses of the weeds
    Trail where the stream is slow,
The vapoured mauves of water-mint
    Melt in the pools below;

Serenely soft September sheds
    On earth her slumberous look,
The heartbreak of an anguished world
    Throbs not by Fringford brook.

All peace is here. Beyond our range,
    Yet 'neath the selfsame sky,
The boys that knew these fields of home
    By Flemish willows lie.

They waded in the sun-shot flow,
    They loitered in the shade,
Who trod the heavy road of death,
    Jesting and unafraid.

Peace! What of peace? This glimpse of peace
    Lies at the heart of pain,
For respite, ere the spirit's load
    We stoop to lift again.

O load of grief, of faith, of wrath,
    Of patient, quenchless will,
Till God shall ease us of your weight
    We'll bear you higher still!

O ghosts that walk by Fringford brook,
    'Tis more than peace you give,
For you, who knew so well to die,
    Shall teach us how to live.

Violet Jacob

Violet Jacob was a Scottish writer celebrated for her poetry and historical novels. Writing in both English and Scots, she is best known for her collection of poems 'Songs of Angus' published in 1915. Jacob's work captures the essence of rural Scotland and its people, with a strong emphasis on local dialects and traditions. In addition to her poetry, she also wrote several novels, short stories, and a memoir. Her legacy remains significant in Scottish literature.

Violet Jacob

Montrose

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The Lost Licht (A Perthshire Legend)

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

The Whustlin' Lad

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

The Tod

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

English

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With willows leaning quietly over,
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My agony made the willows quiver;
I heard the knocking of my heart
Die loudly down the windless river,
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Merrill's Garden

There is a garden where the seeded stems of thin long grass are bowed
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The flower of the tall acacia's gone, the acacia's flower is white no more,
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    O'erblown by Southland airs,
The summer landscape basks in utter peace:
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Low hills, broad meadows, and large, clear-cut squares
    Of ripening corn-fields, rippled by the breeze,
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There's a thought that springs within me--but 'tis sad and silence-bound.

There's a sorrow in those shadows as they lengthen on the lawn,
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Oh thou beyond those heathery hills, beyond those woodlands blue,
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