All round the Camp wild roses blow,
A fragrant, wind-tossed, bank of snow
Alive with birds: and round about
The little silent tents peep out
Their curious peaks, as if to show
The reason for the noise below
In "Massey's Valley", clear and cool,
Where waters move from pool to pool
In tinkling melody: or sleep
In drowsy shadows, deep
Beneath the pines the long day through.

And down in "Hart's" the fish dive deep
In panic fear: or silent, creep
Beneath the rocks,
To watch, with round enquiring eye,
Lithe limbs, that there from "Bouncer's Rock"
Invite the cooling water's shock.
And all the air from Choir Bridge,
Right up to where the utmost ridge
Stands clear and black against the sky,
Is filled with youthful laugh and cry,
While fellows fish, and bathe and lie
And laze around. In happy, rare,
Fitful fragrant breeze, there
Comes the grave, imperial and fine,
Dim, memorial scent of Pine.

And oh! The long unmixed delight,
In the hushed and scented night,
Slowly to swim about the pool,
And feel the healing touch and cool
Caress of water. While the hill
Looms more vaguely huge, until,
The veils of evening dropping slow,
Fades all trace of sunset glow.

Dear Heaven! To see again the streamlets twist
Down purple khud-side crowned with mist,
All through the shimmering veil again
Of soft, baptismal, silv'ry rain.
To feel once more upon one's lips
The sweet spring water as it drips
Through moss and fern.

Say now? - standeth still,
Below the bridge, the ruined mill?
And are there still the groves of pine,
All broken through with eglantine?
And where the morning freshness calls,
Do fellows still climb up the Falls?
Still in eastern skies are born
Those lilac tints that come with dawn?
And doth the love of simple things
Sway greatly hearts? And sings
The vocal air when moving through
The wood? And is the sky still just as blue?

Great scheme! I'll go and see
And find the peace that pleaseth me.

John "Jack" Harper.
Nicholson House (1940-1944)

Author's note: Jack started this poem during his last year at Sanawar. I still have a transcription of his first two handwritten verses. I don't know when he finished the poem but judging by the reminiscent and nostalgic vein of his last few stanzas, I guess it was some many years after he left in 1944. The poem appeared in full for the first time in the 2007 edition of The Old Sanawarian magazine and is presented here on these pages as a lasting memorial and personal tribute to a good friend, true nature lover and kindred spirit.

D.V. Boddington
(LRMS Sanawar 1942-1947)
3 August 2009