And buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts;
And rusted every bayonet with His tears.
And there were no more bombs, of ours or Theirs,
Not even an old flint-lock, not even a pikel.
But God was vexed, and gave all power to Michael;
And when I woke he’d seen to our repairs.
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‘You! What d’you mean by this?’ I rapped.
‘Please, sir, it’s-‘ ”Old yer mouth,’ the sergeant snapped.‘I takes ‘is name, sir?’-‘Please, and then dismiss.’Some days ‘confined to camp’ he got,For being ‘dirty on parade’.He told me, afterwards, the damnèd spotWas blood, his own. ‘Well, blood is dirt,’ I said.‘Blood’s dirt,’ he laughed, looking away,Far off to where his wound had bledAnd almost merged…
The beautiful, the fair, the elegant,
Without a thought of interest or advantage.I used to watch men when they spoke of beautyAnd measure their enthusiasm. OneAn old man, seeing a () setting sun,Praised it () a certain sense of dutyTo the calm evening and his time of life.I know another man that never says a BeautyBut of a horse; ()Men seldom…
1 Move him into the sun–
3 At home, whispering of fields unsown.4 Always it awoke him, even in France,5 Until this morning and this snow.6 If anything might rouse him now7 The kind old sun will know.8 Think how it wakes the seeds–9 Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.10 Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides11 Full-nerved,–still warm,–too hard…
‘Oh! Jesus Christ! I’m hit,’ he said; and died.
The Bullets chirped-In vain, vain, vain!Machine-guns chuckled,-Tut-tut! Tut-tut!And the Big Gun guffawed.Another sighed,-‘O Mother, -Mother, – Dad!’Then smiled at nothing, childlike, being dead.And the lofty Shrapnel-cloudLeisurely gestured,-Fool!And the splinters spat, and tittered.‘My Love!’ one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood,Till slowly lowered, his whole faced kissed the mud.And the Bayonets’ long teeth grinned;Rabbles of Shells hooted…
I, too, saw God through mud–
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.Merry it was to laugh there–Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.For power was on us as we slashed bones bareNot to feel sickness or remorse of murder.I, too, have dropped off fear–Behind the barrage, dead as my…
Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
Drooping tongues from jays that slob their relish,Baring teeth that leer like skulls’ teeth wicked?Stroke on stroke of pain,- but what slow panic,Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?Ever from their hair and through their hands’ palmsMisery swelters. Surely we have perishedSleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?-These are men whose minds the Dead…