Poems

instantly the whole sky burned With fury against them; and soft sudden cups Opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.

Of them who running on that last high place Leapt to swift unseen bullets, or went up On the hot blast and fury of hell's upsurge, Or plunged and fell away past this world's verge, Some say God caught them even before they fell.

But what say such as from existence' brink Ventured but drave too swift to sink. The few who rushed in the body to enter hell, And there out-fiending all its fiends and flames With superhuman inhumanities, Long-famous glories, immemorial shames-- And crawling slowly back, have by degrees Regained cool peaceful air in wonder-- Why speak they not of comrades that went under?

The Chances

I mind as 'ow the night afore that show Us five got talking,--we was in the know, "Over the top to-morrer; boys, we're for it, First wave we are, first ruddy wave; that's tore it." "Ah well," says Jimmy,--an' 'e's seen some scrappin'-- "There ain't more nor five things as can 'appen; Ye get knocked out; else wounded--bad or cushy; Scuppered; or nowt except yer feeling mushy."

One of us got the knock-out, blown to chops. T'other was hurt, like, losin' both 'is props. An' one, to use the word of 'ypocrites, 'Ad the misfortoon to be took by Fritz. Now me, I wasn't scratched, praise God Almighty (Though next time please I'll thank 'im for a blighty), But poor young Jim, 'e's livin' an' 'e's not; 'E reckoned 'e'd five chances, an' 'e's 'ad; 'E's wounded, killed, and pris'ner, all the lot-- The ruddy lot all rolled in one. Jim's mad.

S. I. W.

"I will to the King, And offer him consolation in his trouble, For that man there has set his teeth to die, And being one that hates obedience, Discipline, and orderliness of life, I cannot mourn him." W. B. Yeats.

Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad He'd always show the Hun a brave man's face; Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace,-- Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad. Perhaps his Mother whimpered how she'd fret Until he got a nice, safe wound to nurse. Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse, . . . Brothers--would send his favourite cigarette, Each week, month after month, they wrote the same, Thinking him sheltered in some Y.M. Hut, Where once an hour a bullet missed its aim And misses teased the hunger of his brain. His eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand From the best sandbags after years of rain. But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock, Untrapped the wretch. And death seemed still withheld For torture of lying machinally shelled, At the pleasure of this world's Powers who'd run amok.

He'd seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol, Their people never knew. Yet they were vile. "Death sooner than dishonour, that's the style!" So Father said.

One dawn, our wire patrol Carried him. This time, Death had not missed. We could do nothing, but wipe his bleeding cough. Could it be accident?--Rifles go off . . . Not sniped? No. (Later they found the English ball.)

It was the reasoned crisis of his soul. Against the fires that would not burn him whole But kept him for death's perjury and scoff And life's half-promising, and both their riling.

With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed, And truthfully wrote the Mother "Tim died smiling."

Futility

Move him into the sun-- Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields unsown. Always it woke him, even in France, Until this morning and this snow. If anything might rouse him now The kind old sun will know.