He'll spin you yarns from dawn to dark—and half of 'em are true! He swears in a score of languages, and maybe talks in two! And ... he'll lower a boat in a hurricane to save a drowning crew.

A rough job or a tough job—he's handled two or three— And what or where he won't much care, nor ask what the risk may be.... For a tight place is the right place when it's wild weather at sea!

C. Fox Smith



TO A SOLDIER IN HOSPITAL

Courage came to you with your boyhood's grace Of ardent life and limb. Each day new dangers steeled you to the test, To ride, to climb, to swim. Your hot blood taught you carelessness of death With every breath.

So when you went to play another game You could not but be brave: An Empire's team, a rougher football field, The end—perhaps your grave. What matter? On the winning of a goal You staked your soul.

Yes, you wore courage as you wore your youth With carelessness and joy. But in what Spartan school of discipline Did you get patience, boy? How did you learn to bear this long-drawn pain And not complain?

Restless with throbbing hopes, with thwarted aims, Impulsive as a colt, How do you lie here month by weary month Helpless, and not revolt? What joy can these monotonous days afford Here in a ward?

Yet you are merry as the birds in spring, Or feign the gaiety, Lest those who dress and tend your wound each day Should guess the agony. Lest they should suffer—this the only fear You let draw near.

Greybeard philosophy has sought in books And argument this truth, That man is greater than his pain, but you Have learnt it in your youth. You know the wisdom taught by Calvary At twenty-three.

Death would have found you brave, but braver still You face each lagging day, A merry Stoic, patient, chivalrous, Divinely kind and gay. You bear your knowledge lightly, graduate Of unkind Fate.

Careless philosopher, the first to laugh, The latest to complain. Unmindful that you teach, you taught me this In your long fight with pain: Since God made man so good—here stands my creed— God's good indeed.

Winifred M. Letts



BETWEEN THE LINES

When consciousness came back, he found he lay Between the opposing fires, but could not tell On which hand were his friends; and either way For him to turn was chancy—bullet and shell Whistling and shrieking over him, as the glare Of searchlights scoured the darkness to blind day. He scrambled to his hands and knees ascare, Dragging his wounded foot through puddled clay, And tumbled in a hole a shell had scooped At random in a turnip-field between The unseen trenches where the foes lay cooped Through that unending-battle of unseen, Dead-locked, league-stretching armies; and quite spent He rolled upon his back within the pit, And lay secure, thinking of all it meant— His lying in that little hole, sore hit, But living, while across the starry sky Shrapnel and shell went screeching overhead— Of all it meant that he, Tom Dodd, should lie Among the Belgian turnips, while his bed.... If it were he, indeed, who'd climbed each night, Fagged with the day's work, up the narrow stair, And slipt his clothes off in the candle-light, Too tired to fold them neatly in a chair The way his mother'd taught him—too dog-tired After the long day's serving in the shop, Inquiring what each customer required, Politely talking weather, fit to drop....

And now for fourteen days and nights, at least, He hadn't had his clothes off, and had lain In muddy trenches, napping like a beast With one eye open, under sun and rain And that unceasing hell-fire.... It was strange How things turned out—the chances! You'd just got To take your luck in life, you couldn't change Your luck. And so here he was lying shot Who just six months ago had thought to spend His days behind a counter. Still, perhaps.... And now, God only knew how he would end!

He'd like to know how many of the chaps Had won back to the trench alive, when he Had fallen wounded and been left for dead, If any!... This was different, certainly, From selling knots of tape and reels of thread And knots of tape and reels of thread and knots Of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape, Day in, day out, and answering "Have you got"'s And "Do you keep"'s till there seemed no escape From everlasting serving in a shop, Inquiring what each customer required, Politely talking weather, fit to drop, With swollen ankles, tired.... But he was tired Now. Every bone was aching, and had ached For fourteen days and nights in that wet trench— Just duller when he slept than when he waked— Crouching for shelter from the steady drench Of shell and shrapnel.... That old trench, it seemed Almost like home to him. He'd slept and fed And sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel screamed And shells went whining harmless overhead— Harmless, at least, as far as he.... But Dick— Dick hadn't found them harmless yesterday, At breakfast, when he'd said he couldn't stick Eating dry bread, and crawled out the back way, And brought them butter in a lordly dish— Butter enough for all, and held it high, Yellow and fresh and clean as you would wish— When plump upon the plate from out the sky A shell fell bursting.... Where the butter went, God only knew!... And Dick.... He dared not think Of what had come to Dick.... or what it meant— The shrieking and the whistling and the stink He'd lived in fourteen days and nights. 'T was luck That he still lived.... And queer how little then He seemed to care that Dick.... perhaps 't was pluck That hardened him—a man among the men— Perhaps.... Yet, only think things out a bit, And he was rabbit-livered, blue with funk! And he'd liked Dick ... and yet when Dick was hit He hadn't turned a hair. The meanest skunk He should have thought would feel it when his mate Was blown to smithereens—Dick, proud as punch, Grinning like sin, and holding up the plate— But he had gone on munching his dry hunch, Unwinking, till he swallowed the last crumb. Perhaps 't was just because he dared not let His mind run upon Dick, who'd been his chum. He dared not now, though he could not forget.

Dick took his luck. And, life or death, 't was luck From first to last; and you'd just got to trust Your luck and grin. It wasn't so much pluck As knowing that you'd got to, when needs must, And better to die grinning.... Quiet now Had fallen on the night. On either hand The guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow The quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned The starry sky. He'd never seen before So many stars. Although, of course, he'd known That there were stars, somehow before the war He'd never realised them—so thick-sown, Millions and millions. Serving in the shop, Stars didn't count for much; and then at nights Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop, You didn't see much but the city lights. He'd never in his life seen so much sky As he'd seen this last fortnight. It was queer The things war taught you. He'd a mind to try To count the stars—they shone so bright and clear.

One, two, three, four.... Ah, God, but he was tired.... Five, six, seven, eight.... Yes, it was number eight. And what was the next thing that she required? (Too bad of customers to come so late, At closing time!) Again within the shop He handled knots of tape and reels of thread, Politely talking weather, fit to drop....

When once again the whole sky overhead Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shell And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily He stared about him, wondering. Then he fell Into deep dreamless slumber.

* * * * *

He could see Two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew He was awake, and it again was day— An August morning, burning to clear blue. The frightened rabbit scuttled.... Far away, A sound of firing.... Up there, in the sky Big dragon-flies hung hovering.... Snowballs burst About them.... Flies and snowballs. With a cry He crouched to watch the airmen pass—the first That he'd seen under fire. Lord, that was pluck— Shells bursting all about them—and what nerve! They took their chance, and trusted to their luck. At such a dizzy height to dip and swerve, Dodging the shell-fire.... Hell! but one was hit, And tumbling like a pigeon, plump.... Thank Heaven, It righted, and then turned; and after it The whole flock followed safe—four, five, six, seven, Yes, they were all there safe. He hoped they'd win Back to their lines in safety. They deserved, Even if they were Germans.... 'T was no sin To wish them luck. Think how that beggar swerved Just in the nick of time! He, too, must try To win back to the lines, though, likely as not, He'd take the wrong turn: but he couldn't lie Forever in that hungry hole and rot, He'd got to take his luck, to take his chance Of being sniped by foes or friends. He'd be With any luck in Germany or France Or Kingdom-come, next morning.... Drearily The blazing day burnt over him, shot and shell Whistling and whining ceaselessly. But light Faded at last, and as the darkness fell He rose, and crawled away into the night.

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson



THE WHITE COMRADE

(AFTER W.H. LEATHAM'S The Comrade in White)

Under our curtain of fire, Over the clotted clods, We charged, to be withered, to reel And despairingly wheel When the bugles bade us retire From the terrible odds.

As we ebbed with the battle-tide, Fingers of red-hot steel Suddenly closed on my side. I fell, and began to pray. I crawled on my hands and lay Where a shallow crater yawned wide; Then,—I swooned....

When I woke, it was yet day. Fierce was the pain of my wound, But I saw it was death to stir, For fifty paces away Their trenches were. In torture I prayed for the dark And the stealthy step of my friend Who, staunch to the very end, Would creep to the danger zone And offer his life as a mark To save my own.

Night fell. I heard his tread, Not stealthy, but firm and serene, As if my comrade's head Were lifted far from that scene Of passion and pain and dread; As if my comrade's heart In carnage took no part; As if my comrade's feet Were set on some radiant street Such as no darkness might haunt; As if my comrade's eyes, No deluge of flame could surprise, No death and destruction daunt, No red-beaked bird dismay, Nor sight of decay.

Then in the bursting shells' dim light I saw he was clad in white. For a moment I thought that I saw the smock Of a shepherd in search of his flock. Alert were the enemy, too, And their bullets flew Straight at a mark no bullet could fail; For the seeker was tall and his robe was bright; But he did not flee nor quail. Instead, with unhurrying stride He came, And gathering my tall frame, Like a child, in his arms....

Again I swooned, And awoke From a blissful dream In a cave by a stream. My silent comrade had bound my side. No pain now was mine, but a wish that I spoke,— A mastering wish to serve this man Who had ventured through hell my doom to revoke, As only the truest of comrades can. I begged him to tell me how best I might aid him, And urgently prayed him Never to leave me, whatever betide; When I saw he was hurt— Shot through the hands that were clasped in prayer! Then, as the dark drops gathered there And fell in the dirt, The wounds of my friend Seemed to me such as no man might bear. Those bullet-holes in the patient hands Seemed to transcend All horrors that ever these war-drenched lands Had known or would know till the mad world's end. Then suddenly I was aware That his feet had been wounded, too; And, dimming the white of his side, A dull stain grew. "You are hurt, White Comrade!" I cried. His words I already foreknew: "These are old wounds," said he, "But of late they have troubled me."

Robert Haven Schauffler



FLEURETTE

THE WOUNDED CANADIAN SPEAKS: My leg? It's off at the knee. Do I miss it? Well, some. You see I've had it since I was born; And lately a devilish corn. (I rather chuckle with glee To think how I've fooled that corn.)

But I'll hobble around all right. It isn't that, it's my face. Oh, I know I'm a hideous sight, Hardly a thing in place. Sort of gargoyle, you'd say. Nurse won't give me a glass, But I see the folks as they pass Shudder and turn away; Turn away in distress.... Mirror enough, I guess. I'm gay! You bet I am gay, But I wasn't a while ago. If you'd seen me even to-day, The darnedest picture of woe, With this Caliban mug of mine, So ravaged and raw and red, Turned to the wall—in fine Wishing that I was dead.... What has happened since then, Since I lay with my face to the wall, The most despairing of men! Listen! I'll tell you all.

That poilu across the way, With the shrapnel wound on his head, Has a sister: she came to-day To sit awhile by his bed. All morning I heard him fret: "Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?"

Then sudden, a joyous cry; The tripping of little feet; The softest, tenderest sigh; A voice so fresh and sweet; Clear as a silver bell, Fresh as the morning dews: "C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel! Mon frere, comme je suis heureuse!"

So over the blanket's rim I raised my terrible face, And I saw—how I envied him! A girl of such delicate grace; Sixteen, all laughter and love; As gay as a linnet, and yet As tenderly sweet as a dove; Half woman, half child—Fleurette.

Then I turned to the wall again. (I was awfully blue, you see,) And I thought with a bitter pain: "Such visions are not for me." So there like a log I lay, All hidden, I thought, from view, When sudden I heard her say: "Ah! Who is that malheureux?" Then briefly I heard him tell (However he came to know) How I'd smothered a bomb that fell Into the trench, and so None of my men were hit, Though it busted me up a bit.

Well, I didn't quiver an eye, And he chattered and there she sat; And I fancied I heard her sigh— But I wouldn't just swear to that. And maybe she wasn't so bright, Though she talked in a merry strain, And I closed my eyes ever so tight, Yet I saw her ever so plain: Her dear little tilted nose, Her delicate, dimpled chin, Her mouth like a budding rose, And the glistening pearls within; Her eyes like the violet: Such a rare little queen—Fleurette.

And at last when she rose to go, The light was a little dim, And I ventured to peep, and so I saw her, graceful and slim, And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh How I envied and envied him!

So when she was gone I said In rather a dreary voice To him of the opposite bed: "Ah, friend, how you must rejoice! But me, I'm a thing of dread. For me nevermore the bliss, The thrill of a woman's kiss."

Then I stopped, for lo! she was there, And a great light shone in her eyes. And me! I could only stare, I was taken so by surprise, When gently she bent her head: "May I kiss you, sergeant?" she said.

Then she kissed my burning lips, With her mouth like a scented flower, And I thrilled to the finger-tips, And I hadn't even the power To say: "God bless you, dear!" And I felt such a precious tear Pall on my withered cheek, And darn it! I couldn't speak.

And so she went sadly away, And I know that my eyes were wet. Ah, not to my dying day Will I forget, forget! Can you wonder now I am gay? God bless her, that little Fleurette!

Robert W. Service



NOT TO KEEP

They sent him back to her. The letter came Saying ... and she could have him. And before She could be sure there was no hidden ill Under the formal writing, he was in her sight— Living.—They gave him back to her alive— How else? They are not known to send the dead— And not disfigured visibly. His face?— His hands? She had to look—to ask, "What was it, dear?" And she had given all And still she had all—they had—they the lucky! Wasn't she glad now? Everything seemed won, And all the rest for them permissible ease. She had to ask, "What was it, dear?" "Enough, Yet not enough. A bullet through and through, High in the breast. Nothing but what good care And medicine and rest—and you a week, Can cure me of to go again." The same Grim giving to do over for them both. She dared no more than ask him with her eyes How was it with him for a second trial. And with his eyes he asked her not to ask. They had given him back to her, but not to keep.

Robert Frost



THE DEAD

I

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away; poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, That men call age; and those who would have been, Their sons, they gave, their immortality.

Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth, Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. Honour has come back, as a king, to earth, And paid his subjects with a royal wage; And Nobleness walks in our ways again; And we have come into our heritage.

II

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs, And sunset, and the colours of the earth. These had seen movement and heard music; known Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended; Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone; Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended. There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after, Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, A width, a shining peace, under the night.

Rupert Brooke



THE ISLAND OF SKYROS

Here, where we stood together, we three men, Before the war had swept us to the East Three thousand miles away, I stand again And bear the bells, and breathe, and go to feast. We trod the same path, to the selfsame place, Yet here I stand, having beheld their graves, Skyros whose shadows the great seas erase, And Seddul Bahr that ever more blood craves. So, since we communed here, our bones have been Nearer, perhaps, than they again will be, Earth and the worldwide battle lie between, Death lies between, and friend-destroying sea. Yet here, a year ago, we talked and stood As I stand now, with pulses beating blood.

I saw her like a shadow on the sky In the last light, a blur upon the sea, Then the gale's darkness put the shadow by, But from one grave that island talked to me; And, in the midnight, in the breaking storm, I saw its blackness and a blinking light, And thought, "So death obscures your gentle form, So memory strives to make the darkness bright; And, in that heap of rocks, your body lies, Part of the island till the planet ends, My gentle comrade, beautiful and wise, Part of this crag this bitter surge offends, While I, who pass, a little obscure thing, War with this force, and breathe, and am its king."

John Masefield



FOR THE FALLEN

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres, There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted: They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables of home; They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain; As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain.

Laurence Binyon



TWO SONNETS

I

Saints have adored the lofty soul of you. Poets have whitened at your high renown. We stand among the many millions who Do hourly wait to pass your pathway down. You, so familiar, once were strange: we tried To live as of your presence unaware. But now in every road on every side We see your straight and steadfast signpost there.

I think it like that signpost in my land Hoary and tall, which pointed me to go Upward, into the hills, on the right hand, Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow, A homeless land and friendless, but a land I did not know and that I wished to know.

II

Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat: Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean, A merciful putting away of what has been.

And this we know: Death is not Life effete, Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen So marvellous things know well the end not yet.

Victor and vanquished are a-one in death: Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say, "Come, what was your record when you drew breath?" But a big blot has hid each yesterday So poor, so manifestly incomplete. And your bright Promise, withered long and sped, Is touched, stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet And blossoms and is you, when you are dead.

Charles Hamilton Sorley

June 12, 1915



"HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE"

Nay, nay, sweet England, do not grieve! Not one of these poor men who died But did within his soul believe That death for thee was glorified.

Ever they watched it hovering near That mystery 'yond thought to plumb, Perchance sometimes in loathed fear They heard cold Danger whisper, Come!—

Heard and obeyed. O, if thou weep Such courage and honour, beauty, care, Be it for joy that those who sleep Only thy joy could share.

Walter de la Mare



THE DEBT

No more old England will they see— Those men who've died for you and me.

So lone and cold they lie; but we, We still have life; we still may greet Our pleasant friends in home and street; We still have life, are able still To climb the turf of Bignor Hill, To see the placid sheep go by, To hear the sheep-dog's eager cry, To feel the sun, to taste the rain, To smell the Autumn's scents again Beneath the brown and gold and red Which old October's brush has spread, To hear the robin in the lane, To look upon the English sky.

So young they were, so strong and well, Until the bitter summons fell— Too young to die. Yet there on foreign soil they lie, So pitiful, with glassy eye And limbs all tumbled anyhow: Quite finished, now. On every heart—lest we forget— Secure at home—engrave this debt!

Too delicate is flesh to be The shield that nations interpose 'Twixt red Ambition and his foes— The bastion of Liberty. So beautiful their bodies were, Built with so exquisite a care: So young and fit and lithe and fair. The very flower of us were they, The very flower, but yesterday! Yet now so pitiful they lie, Where love of country bade them hie To fight this fierce Caprice—and die. All mangled now, where shells have burst, And lead and steel have done their worst; The tender tissues ploughed away, The years' slow processes effaced: The Mother of us all—disgraced.

And some leave wives behind, young wives; Already some have launched new lives: A little daughter, little son— For thus this blundering world goes on. But never more will any see The old secure felicity, The kindnesses that made us glad Before the world went mad. They'll never hear another bird, Another gay or loving word— Those men who lie so cold and lone, Far in a country not their own; Those men who died for you and me, That England still might sheltered be And all our lives go on the same (Although to live is almost shame).

E.V. Lucas



REQUIESCANT

In lonely watches night by night Great visions burst upon my sight, For down the stretches of the sky The hosts of dead go marching by.

Strange ghostly banners o'er them float, Strange bugles sound an awful note, And all their faces and their eyes Are lit with starlight from the skies.

The anguish and the pain have passed And peace hath come to them at last, But in the stern looks linger still The iron purpose and the will.

Dear Christ, who reign'st above the flood Of human tears and human blood, A weary road these men have trod, O house them in the home of God!

Frederick George Scott

In a Field near Ypres

April, 1915



TO OUR FALLEN

Ye sleepers, who will sing you? We can but give our tears— Ye dead men, who shall bring you Fame in the coming years? Brave souls ... but who remembers The flame that fired your embers?... Deep, deep the sleep that holds you Who one time had no peers.

Yet maybe Fame's but seeming And praise you'd set aside, Content to go on dreaming, Yea, happy to have died If of all things you prayed for— All things your valour paid for— One prayer is not forgotten, One purchase not denied.

But God grants your dear England A strength that shall not cease Till she have won for all the Earth From ruthless men release, And made supreme upon her Mercy and Truth and Honour— Is this the thing you died for? Oh, Brothers, sleep in peace!

Robert Ernest Vernede



THE OLD SOLDIER

Lest the young soldiers be strange in heaven, God bids the old soldier they all adored Come to Him and wait for them, clean, new-shriven, A happy doorkeeper in the House of the Lord.

Lest it abash them, the strange new splendour, Lest it affright them, the new robes clean; Here's an old face, now, long-tried, and tender, A word and a hand-clasp as they troop in.

"My boys," he greets them: and heaven is homely, He their great captain in days gone o'er; Dear is the friend's face, honest and comely, Waiting to welcome them by the strange door.

Katharine Tynan



LORD KITCHENER

Unflinching hero, watchful to foresee And face thy country's peril wheresoe'er, Directing war and peace with equal care, Till by long duty ennobled thou wert he Whom England call'd and bade "Set my arm free To obey my will and save my honour fair,"— What day the foe presumed on her despair And she herself had trust in none but thee:

Among Herculean deeds the miracle That mass'd the labour of ten years in one Shall be thy monument. Thy work was done Ere we could thank thee; and the high sea swell Surgeth unheeding where thy proud ship fell By the lone Orkneys, at the set of sun.

Robert Bridges

June 8, 1916



KITCHENER

There is wild water from the north; The headlands darken in their foam As with a threat of challenge stubborn earth Booms at that far wild sea-line charging home.

The night shall stand upon the shifting sea As yesternight stood there, And hear the cry of waters through the air, The iron voice of headlands start and rise— The noise of winds for mastery That screams to hear the thunder in those cries. But now henceforth there shall be heard From Brough of Bursay, Marwick Head, And shadows of the distant coast, Another voice bestirred— Telling of something greatly lost Somewhere below the tidal glooms, and dead. Beyond the uttermost Of aught the night may hear on any seas From tempest-known wild water's cry, and roar Of iron shadows looming from the shore, It shall be heard—and when the Orcades Sleep in a hushed Atlantic's starry folds As smoothly as, far down below the tides, Sleep on the windless broad sea-wolds Where this night's shipwreck hides.

By many a sea-holm where the shock Of ocean's battle falls, and into spray Gives up its ghosts of strife; by reef and rock Ravaged by their eternal brute affray With monstrous frenzies of their shore's green foe; Where overstream and overfall and undertow Strive, snatch away; A wistful voice, without a sound, Shall dwell beside Pomona, on the sea, And speak the homeward- and the outward-bound, And touch the helm of passing minds And bid them steer as wistfully— Saying: "He did great work, until the winds And waters hereabout that night betrayed Him to the drifting death! His work went on— He would not be gainsaid.... Though where his bones are, no man knows, not one!"

John Helston



THE FALLEN SUBALTERN

The starshells float above, the bayonets glisten; We bear our fallen friend without a sound; Below the waiting legions lie and listen To us, who march upon their burial-ground.

Wound in the flag of England, here we lay him; The guns will flash and thunder o'er the grave; What other winding sheet should now array him, What other music should salute the brave?

As goes the Sun-god in his chariot glorious, When all his golden banners are unfurled, So goes the soldier, fallen but victorious, And leaves behind a twilight in the world.

And those who come this way, in days hereafter, Will know that here a boy for England fell, Who looked at danger with the eyes of laughter, And on the charge his days were ended well.

One last salute; the bayonets clash and glisten; With arms reversed we go without a sound: One more has joined the men who lie and listen To us, who march upon their burial-ground.

Herbert Asquith

1915



THE DEBT UNPAYABLE

What have I given, Bold sailor on the sea, In earth or heaven, That you should die for me?

What can I give, O soldier, leal and brave, Long as I live, To pay the life you gave?

What tithe or part Can I return to thee, O stricken heart, That thou shouldst break for me?

The wind of Death For you has slain life's flowers, It withereth (God grant) all weeds in ours.

F.W. Bourdillon



THE MESSAGES

"I cannot quite remember.... There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench—and three Whispered their dying messages to me...."

Back from the trenches, more dead than alive, Stone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken knee, He hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly:

"I cannot quite remember.... There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench, and three Whispered their dying messages to me....

"Their friends are waiting, wondering how they thrive— Waiting a word in silence patiently.... But what they said, or who their friends may be

"I cannot quite remember.... There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench—and three Whispered their dying messages to me...."

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson



A CROSS IN FLANDERS

In the face of death, they say, he joked—he had no fear; His comrades, when they laid him in a Flanders grave, Wrote on a rough-hewn cross—a Calvary stood near— "Without a fear he gave

"His life, cheering his men, with laughter on his lips." So wrote they, mourning him. Yet was there only one Who fully understood his laughter, his gay quips, One only, she alone—

She who, not so long since, when love was new—confest, Herself toyed with light laughter while her eyes were dim, And jested, while with reverence despite her jest She worshipped God and him.

She knew—O Love, O Death!—his soul had been at grips With the most solemn things. For she, was she not dear? Yes, he was brave, most brave, with laughter on his lips, The braver for his fear!

G. Rostrevor Hamilton



RESURRECTION

Not long did we lie on the torn, red field of pain. We fell, we lay, we slumbered, we took rest, With the wild nerves quiet at last, and the vexed brain Cleared of the winged nightmares, and the breast Freed of the heavy dreams of hearts afar. We rose at last under the morning star. We rose, and greeted our brothers, and welcomed our foes. We rose; like the wheat when the wind is over, we rose. With shouts we rose, with gasps and incredulous cries, With bursts of singing, and silence, and awestruck eyes, With broken laughter, half tears, we rose from the sod, With welling tears and with glad lips, whispering, "God." Like babes, refreshed from sleep, like children, we rose, Brimming with deep content, from our dreamless repose. And, "What do you call it?" asked one. "I thought I was dead." "You are," cried another. "We're all of us dead and flat." "I'm alive as a cricket. There's something wrong with your head." They stretched their limbs and argued it out where they sat. And over the wide field friend and foe Spoke of small things, remembering not old woe Of war and hunger, hatred and fierce words. They sat and listened to the brooks and birds, And watched the starlight perish in pale flame, Wondering what God would look like when He came.

Hermann Hagedorn



TO A HERO

We may not know how fared your soul before Occasion came to try it by this test. Perchance, it used on lofty wings to soar; Again, it may have dwelt in lowly nest.

We do not know if bygone knightly strain Impelled you then, or blood of humble clod Defied the dread adventure to attain The cross of honor or the peace of God.

We see but this, that when the moment came You raised on high, then drained, the solemn cup— The grail of death; that, touched by valor's flame, The kindled spirit burned the body up.

Oscar C.A. Child



RUPERT BROOKE

(IN MEMORIAM)

I never knew you save as all men know Twitter of mating birds, flutter of wings In April coverts, and the streams that flow— One of the happy voices of our Springs.

A voice for ever stilled, a memory, Since you went eastward with the fighting ships, A hero of the great new Odyssey, And God has laid His finger on your lips.

Moray Dalton



THE PLAYERS

We challenged Death. He threw with weighted dice. We laughed and paid the forfeit, glad to pay— Being recompensed beyond our sacrifice With that nor Death nor Time can take away.

Francis Bickley



A SONG

Oh, red is the English rose, And the lilies of France are pale, And the poppies grow in the golden wheat, For the men whose eyes are heavy with sleep, Where the ground is red as the English rose, And the lips as the lilies of France are pale, And the ebbing pulses beat fainter and fainter and fail.

Oh, red is the English rose, And the lilies of France are pale. And the poppies lie in the level corn For the men who sleep and never return. But wherever they lie an English rose So red, and a lily of France so pale, Will grow for a love that never and never can fail.

Charles Alexander Richmond



HARVEST MOON

Over the twilight field, Over the glimmering field And bleeding furrows, with their sodden yield Of sheaves that still did writhe, After the scythe; The teeming field, and darkly overstrewn With all the garnered fullness of that noon— Two looked upon each other. One was a Woman, men had called their mother: And one the Harvest Moon.

And one the Harvest Moon Who stood, who gazed On those unquiet gleanings, where they bled; Till the lone Woman said:

"But we were crazed.... We should laugh now together, I and you; We two. You, for your ever dreaming it was worth A star's while to look on, and light the earth; And I, for ever telling to my mind Glory it was and gladness, to give birth To human kind. I gave the breath,—and thought it not amiss, I gave the breath to men, For men to slay again; Lording it over anguish, all to give My life, that men might live, For this.

"You will be laughing now, remembering We called you once Dead World, and barren thing. Yes, so we called you then, You, far more wise Than to give life to men."

Over the field that there Gave back the skies A scattered upward stare From sightless eyes, The furrowed field that lay Striving awhile, through many a bleeding dune Of throbbing clay,—but dumb and quiet soon, She looked; and went her way, The Harvest Moon.

Josephine Preston Peabody



HARVEST MOON: 1916

Moon, slow rising, over the trembling sea-rim, Moon of the lifted tides and their folded burden. Look, look down. And gather the blinded oceans, Moon of compassion.

Come, white Silence, over the one sea pathway: Pour with hallowing hands on the surge and outcry, Silver flame; and over the famished blackness, Petals of moonlight.

Once again, the formless void of a world-wreck Gropes its way through the echoing dark of chaos; Tide on tide, to the calling, lost horizons,— One in the darkness.

You that veil the light of the all-beholding, Shed white tidings down to the dooms of longing, Down to the timeless dark; and the sunken treasures, One in the darkness.

Touch, and harken,—under that shrouding silver, Rise and fall, the heart of the sea and its legions, All and one; one with the breath of the deathless, Rising and falling.

Touch and waken so, to a far hereafter, Ebb and flow, the deep, and the dead in their longing: Till at last, on the hungering face of the waters, There shall be Light.

Light of Light, give us to see, for their sake. Light of Light, grant them eternal peace; And let light perpetual shine upon them; Light, everlasting.

Josephine Preston Peabody



MY SON

Here is his little cambric frock That I laid by in lavender so sweet, And here his tiny shoe and sock I made with loving care for his dear feet.

I fold the frock across my breast, And in imagination, ah, my sweet, Once more I hush my babe to rest, And once again I warm those little feet.

Where do those strong young feet now stand? In flooded trench, half numb to cold or pain, Or marching through the desert sand To some dread place that they may never gain.

God guide him and his men to-day! Though death may lurk in any tree or hill, His brave young spirit is their stay, Trusting in that they'll follow where he will.

They love him for his tender heart When poverty or sorrow asks his aid, But he must see each do his part— Of cowardice alone he is afraid.

I ask no honours on the field, That other men have won as brave as he— I only pray that God may shield My son, and bring him safely back to me!

Ada Tyrrell



TO THE OTHERS

This was the gleam then that lured from far Your son and my son to the Holy War: Your son and my son for the accolade With the banner of Christ over them, in steel arrayed.

All quiet roads of life ran on to this; When they were little for their mother's kiss. Little feet hastening, so soft, unworn, To the vows and the vigil and the road of thorn.

Your son and my son, the downy things, Sheltered in mother's breast, by mother's wings, Should they be broken in the Lord's wars—Peace! He Who has given them—are they not His?

Dream of knight's armour and the battle-shout, Fighting and falling at the last redoubt, Dream of long dying on the field of slain; This was the dream that lured, nor lured in vain.

These were the Voices they heard from far; Bugles and trumpets of the Holy War. Your son and my son have heard the call, Your son and my son have stormed the wall.

Your son and my son, clean as new swords; Your man and my man and now the Lord's! Your son and my son for the Great Crusade, With the banner of Christ over them—our knights new-made.

Katharine Tynan



THE JOURNEY

I went upon a journey To countries far away, From province unto province To pass my holiday.

And when I came to Serbia, In a quiet little town At an inn with a flower-filled garden With a soldier I sat down.

Now he lies dead at Belgrade. You heard the cannon roar! It boomed from Rome to Stockholm, It pealed to the far west shore.

And when I came to Russia, A man with flowing hair Called me his friend and showed me A flowing river there.

Now he lies dead at Lemberg, Beside another stream, In his dark eyes extinguished The friendship of his dream.

And then I crossed two countries Whose names on my lips are sealed.... Not yet had they flung their challenge Nor led upon the field

Sons who lie dead at Liege, Dead by the Russian lance, Dead in southern mountains, Dead through the farms of France.

I stopped in the land of Louvain, So tranquil, happy, then. I lived with a good old woman, With her sons and her grandchildren.

Now they lie dead at Louvain, Those simple kindly folk. Some heard, some fled. It must be Some slept, for they never woke.

I came to France. I was thirsty. I sat me down to dine. The host and his young wife served me With bread and fruit and wine.

Now he lies dead at Cambrai— He was sent among the first. In dreams she sees him dying Of wounds, of heat, of thirst.

At last I passed to Dover And saw upon the shore A tall young English captain And soldiers, many more.

Now they lie dead at Dixmude, The brave, the strong, the young! I turn unto my homeland, All my journey sung!

Grace Fallow Norton



A MOTHER'S DEDICATION

Dear son of mine, the baby days are over, I can no longer shield you from the earth; Yet in my heart always I must remember How through the dark I fought to give you birth.

Dear son of mine, by all the lives behind you; By all our fathers fought for in the past; In this great war to which your birth has brought you, Acquit you well, hold you our honour fast!

God guard you, son of mine, where'er you wander; God lead the banners under which you fight; You are my all, I give you to the Nation, God shall uphold you that you fight aright.

Margaret Peterson



TO A MOTHER

Robbed mother of the stricken Motherland— Two hearts in one and one among the dead, Before your grave with an uncovered head I, that am man, disquiet and silent stand In reverence. It is your blood they shed; It is your sacred self that they demand, For one you bore in joy and hope, and planned Would make yourself eternal, now has fled.

But though you yielded him unto the knife And altar with a royal sacrifice Of your most precious self and dearer life— Your master gem and pearl above all price— Content you; for the dawn this night restores Shall be the dayspring of his soul and yours.

Eden Phillpotts



SPRING IN WAR-TIME

I feel the spring far off, far off, The faint, far scent of bud and leaf— Oh, how can spring take heart to come To a world in grief, Deep grief?

The sun turns north, the days grow long, Later the evening star grows bright— How can the daylight linger on For men to fight, Still fight?

The grass is waking in the ground, Soon it will rise and blow in waves— How can it have the heart to sway Over the graves, New graves?

Under the boughs where lovers walked The apple-blooms will shed their breath— But what of all the lovers now Parted by Death, Grey Death?

Sara Teasdale



OCCASIONAL NOTES

ASQUITH, HERBERT. He received a commission in the Royal Marine Artillery at the end of 1914 and served as a Second Lieutenant with an Anti- Aircraft Battery in April, 1915, returning wounded during the following June. He became a full Lieutenant in July, but was invalided home after about six weeks. In June, 1916, he joined the Royal Field Artillery and went out to France once again with a battery of field guns at the beginning of March, 1917. Since that time he has been steadily on active service.

BEWSHER, PAUL. He was educated at St. Paul's School, and is a Sub-Lieutenant in the Royal Naval Air Service.

BINYON, LAURENCE. His war writings include The Winnowing Fan and The Anvil, published in America under the title of The Cause.

BRIDGES, ROBERT. He has been Poet-Laureate of England since 1913.

BROOKE, RUPERT. He was born at Rugby on August 3, 1887, and became a Fellow of King's College, Cambridge, in 1913. He was made a Sub-Lieutenant in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve in September, 1914; accompanied the Antwerp expedition in October of the same year; and sailed with the British Mediterranean Expeditionary Force on February 28, 1915. He died in the Aegean, on April 23, and lies buried in the island of Skyros. See the memorial poems in this volume, The Island of Skyros, by John Masefield; and Rupert Brooke, by Moray Dalton. His war poetry appears in the volume entitled 1914 and other Poems, and in his Collected Poems.

CAMPBELL, WILFRED. This well-known Canadian poet has lately published Sagas of Vaster Britain, War Lyrics, and Canada's Responsibility to the Empire. His son, Captain Basil Campbell, joined the Second Pioneers.

CHESTERTON, CECIL EDWARD. He has been editor of the New Witness since 1912, and is a private in the Highland Light Infantry. His war writings include The Prussian hath said in his Heart, and The Perils of Peace.

CHESTERTON, GILBERT KEITH. This brilliant and versatile author has written many essays on phases of the war, including weekly contributions to The Illustrated London News.

CONE, HELEN GRAY. She has been Professor of English in Hunter College since 1899. Her war poetry appears in the volume entitled A Chant of Love for England, and other Poems.

COULSON, LESLIE. He joined the British Army in September, 1914, declined a commission and served in Egypt, Malta, Gallipoli (where he was wounded), and Prance. He became Sergeant in the City of London Regiment (Royal Fusiliers) and was mortally wounded while leading a charge against the Germans in October, 1916.

DIXON, WILLIAM MACNEILE. He is Professor of English Language and Literature in the University of Glasgow. His war writings include The British Navy at War and The Fleets behind the Fleet.

DOYLE, SIR ARTHUR CONAN. He has written much of interest on the war, especially as regards the western campaigns.

FIELD, A.N. He is a private in the Second New Zealand Brigade.

FRANKAU, GILBERT. Upon the declaration of war he joined the Ninth East Surrey Regiment (Infantry), with the rank of Lieutenant. He was transferred to the Royal Field Artillery in March, 1915, and was appointed Adjutant during the following July. He proceeded to France in that capacity, fought in the battle of Loos, served at Ypres during the winter of 1915-16, and thereafter took part in the battle of the Somme. In October, 1916, he was recalled to England, was promoted to the rank of Staff Captain in the Intelligence Corps, and was sent to Italy to engage in special duties.

FREEMAN, JOHN. He was Lieutenant-Colonel in the Russian A. M. S., on the Bacteriological Mission to Galicia, 1914.

GALSWORTHY, JOHN. Mr. Galsworthy, the well-known novelist, poet, and dramatist, served for several months as an expert masseur in an English hospital for French soldiers at Martouret.

GIBSON, WILFRID WILSON. His war writings include Battle, etc.

GRENFELL, THE HON. JULIAN, D.S.O. He was a Captain in the First Royal Dragoons; was wounded near Ypres on March 13, 1915; and died at Boulogne on May 26. He was the eldest son of Lord Desborough. "Julian set an example of light-hearted courage," wrote Lieutenant-Colonel Machlachan, of the Eighth Service Battalion Rifle Brigade, "which is famous all through the Army in France, and has stood out even above the most lion-hearted."

HALL, JAMES NORMAN. He is a member of the American Aviation Corps in France, and author of Kitchener's Mob and High Adventure. He was captured by the Germans, May 7, 1918, after an air battle inside the enemy's lines.

HARDY, THOMAS. He received the Order of Merit in 1910.

HEMPHREY, MALCOLM. He is a Lance-Corporal in the Army Ordnance Corps, Nairobi, British East Africa.

HEWLETT, MAURICE HENRY. He has published a group of his war poems under the title Sing-Songs of the War.

HODGSON, W.N. He was the son of the Bishop of Ipswich and Edmundsbury, and was a Lieutenant in the Devon Regiment. His pen-name is "Edward Melbourne." He won the Military Cross. He was killed during the battle of the Somme, in July, 1916.

HOWARD, GEOFFREY. He is a Lieutenant in the Royal Fusiliers.

HUSSEY, DYNELEY. He is a Lieutenant in the Thirteenth Battalion of the Lancashire Fusiliers, and has published his war poems in a volume entitled Fleur de Lys.

HUTCHINSON, HENRY WILLIAM. He was the son of Sir Sidney Hutchinson, and was educated at St. Paul's School. He was a Second Lieutenant in the Middlesex Regiment. He was killed while on active service in France, March 13, 1917, at the age of nineteen.

KAUFMAN, HERBERT. He has published The Song of the Guns, which was later republished as The Hell-Gate of Soissons.

KIPLING, RUDYARD. Mr. Kipling won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1907. His war writings include The New Armies in Training, France at War, and Sea Warfare.

KNIGHT-ADKIN, JAMES. When war was declared he was a Master at the Imperial Service College, Windsor, and Lieutenant in the Officers' Training Corps. He volunteered on the first day of the war and was attached to the Fourth Battalion, Gloucester Regiment. He went into the trenches in March, 1915, was wounded in June, and was invalided home. In 1916 he returned to France, and is now a Captain in charge of a prisoner-of-war camp.

LEE, JOSEPH. He enlisted, at the outbreak of the war, as a private in the 1st/4th Battalion of the Black Watch, Royal Highlanders, in which corps he has served on all parts of the British front in France and Flanders. Sergeant Lee has both composed and illustrated a volume of war-poems entitled Ballads of Battle.

LUCAS, EDWARD VERRALL. Mr. Lucas has undertaken hospital service.

MASEFIELD, JOHN. Mr. Masefield, whose lectures in America early in 1916 quickened interest in his work and personality, has been very active during the war. He has written an excellent study of the campaign on the Gallipoli Peninsula, having served there and also in France in connection with Red Cross work.

MORGAN, CHARLES LANGBRIDGE. He is a Sub-Lieutenant in the Royal Naval Division, and is a Prisoner of War in Holland.

NEWBOLT, SIR HENRY. He is the author of The Book of the Thin Red Line, Story of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry, and Stories of the Great War.

NOYES, ALFRED. His war writings include A Salute to the Fleet, etc.

OGILVIE, WILLIAM HENRY. He was Professor of Agricultural Journalism in the Iowa State College, U.S.A., from 1905 to 1907. His war writings include Australia and Other Verses.

OSWALD, SYDNEY. He is a Major in the King's Royal Rifle Corps.

PHILLIPS, STEPHEN. His war writings include Armageddon, etc. He died December 9, 1915.

PHILLPOTTS, EDEN. Among his war writings are The Human Boy and the War, and Plain Song, 1914-16.

RATCLIFFE, A. VICTOR. He was a Lieutenant in the 10th/13th West Yorkshire Regiment, and was killed in action on July 1, 1916.

RAWNSLEY, REV. HARDWICKE DRUMMOND. He has been Canon of Carlisle and Honorary Chaplain to the King since 1912.

ROBERTSON, ALEXANDER. He is a Corporal in the Twelfth York and Lancaster Regiment. He was reported "missing" in July, 1916.

ROSS, SIR RONALD. He is the President of the Poetry Society of Great Britain, and is a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Royal Army Medical Corps.

SCOLLARD, CLINTON. His war writings include The Vale of Shadows, and Other Verses of the Great War, and Italy in Arms, and Other Verses.

SCOTT, CANON FREDERICK GEORGE. He is a Major in the Third Brigade of the First Canadian Division, British Expeditionary Force.

SEAMAN, SIR OWEN. He has been the editor of Punch since 1906. His war writings include War-Time and Made in England.

SEEGER, ALAN. Among the Americans who have served at the front there is none who has produced poetic work of such high quality as that of Alan Seeger. He was born in New York on June 22nd, 1888; was educated at the Horace Mann School; Hackley School, Tarrytown, New York; and Harvard College. In 1912 he went to Paris and lived the life of a student and writer in the Latin Quarter. During the third week of the war he enlisted in the Foreign Legion of France. His service as a soldier was steady, loyal and uncomplaining—indeed, exultant would not be too strong a word to describe the spirit which seems constantly to have animated his military career. He took part in the battle of Champagne. Afterwards, his regiment was allowed to recuperate until May, 1916. On July 1 a general advance was ordered, and on the evening of July 4 the Legion was ordered to attack the village of Belloy-en-Santerre. Seeger's squad was caught by the fire of six machine-guns and he himself was wounded in several places, but he continued to cheer his comrades as they rushed on in what proved a successful charge. He died on the morning of July 5. The twenty or more poems he wrote during active service are included in the collected Poems by Alan Seeger, with an introduction by William Archer.

SORLEY, CHARLES HAMILTON. He was born at Old Aberdeen on May 19, 1895. He was a student at Marlborough College from the autumn of 1908 until the end of 1913, at which time he was elected to a scholarship at University College, Oxford. After leaving school in England, he spent several months as a student and observer in Germany. When the war broke out he returned home and was gazetted Second Lieutenant in the Seventh (Service) Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment. In November he was made a Lieutenant, and in August, 1915, a Captain. He served in France from May 30 to October 13, 1915, when he was killed in action near Hulluch. His war poems and letters appear in a volume entitled Marlborough and other Poems, published by the Cambridge University Press.

STEWART, J.E. He is a Captain in the Eighth Border Regiment, British Expeditionary Force. He was awarded the Military Cross in 1916.

TENNANT, EDWARD WYNDHAM. He was the son of Baron Glenconner, and was at Winchester when war was declared. He was only seventeen when he joined the Grenadier Guards, Twenty-first Battalion. He had one year's training in England, saw one year's active service in France, and fell, gallantly fighting, in the battle of the Somme, 1916.

TYNAN, KATHARINE. Pen-name of Mrs. Katharine Tynan Hinkson, whose war writings include The Flower of Peace, The Holy War, etc.

VAN DYKE, HENRY. He has been Professor of English Literature in Princeton University since 1900, and was United States Minister to the Netherlands and Luxembourg from June, 1913, to December, 1916. He has published several war poems. He is the first American to receive an honorary degree at Oxford since the United States entered the war. The degree of Doctor of Civil Law was conferred upon him on May 8, 1917.

VERNEDE, ROBERT ERNEST. He was educated at St. Paul's School and at St. John's College, Oxford. On leaving college he became a professional writer, producing several novels and two books of travel sketches, one dealing with India, the other with Canada. He was also author of a number of poems. At the outbreak of the war he enlisted in the Nineteenth Royal Fusiliers, known as the Public Schools Battalion, and received a commission as Second Lieutenant in the Rifle Brigade, in May, 1915. He went to France in November, 1915, and was wounded during the battle of the Somme in September of the following year, but returned to the front in December. He died of wounds on April 9, 1917, in his forty-second year.

WATERHOUSE, GILBERT. Lieutenant in the Second Essex Regiment. His war writings include Railhead, and other Poems. He is reported "missing."

WHARTON, EDITH. She has written Fighting France, etc.



INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A bowl of daffodils A league and a league from the trenches—from the traversed maze of the lines A song of hate is a song of Hell A sudden swirl of song in the bright sky A wind in the world! The dark departs A winged death has smitten dumb thy bells All that a man might ask thou hast given me, England All the hills and vales along Alone amid the battle-din untouched Ambassador of Christ you go Around no fire the soldiers sleep to-night As I lay in the trenches As when the shadow of the sun's eclipse At last there'll dawn the last of the long year Awake, ye nations, slumbering supine

Because for once the sword broke in her hand Before I knew, the Dawn was on the road Beneath fair Magdalen's storied towers Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead Broken, bewildered by the long retreat Brothers in blood! They who this wrong began Burned from the ore's rejected dross By all the deeds to Thy dear glory done By all the glories of the day By day, by night, along the lines their dull boom rings

Champion of human honour, let us lave Come, Death, I'd have a word with thee Courage came to you with your boyhood's grace

Dark, dark lay the drifters, against the red west Dawn off the Foreland—the young flood making Dear son of mine, the baby days are over Dreary lay the long road, dreary lay the town

Endless lanes sunken in the clay England, in this great fight to which you go England! where the sacred flame

Facing the guns, he jokes as well Far fall the day when England's realm shall see For all we have and are Franceline rose in the dawning gray From morn to midnight, all day through Further and further we leave the scene

Give us a name to fill the mind Great names of thy great captains gone before Green gardens in Laventie Guns of Verdun point to Metz

He said: Thou petty people, let me pass Hearken, the feet of the Destroyer tread Here is his little cambric frock Here lies a clerk who half his life had spent Here, where we stood together, we three men

I cannot quite remember.... There were five I feel the spring far off, far off I have a rendezvous with Death I heard the rumbling guns, I saw the smoke I know a beach road I never knew you save as all men know I pray for peace; yet peace is but a prayer I saw her first abreast the Boston Light I saw the spires of Oxford I see across the chasm of flying years I was out early to-day, spying about I went upon a journey I will die cheering, if I needs must die If I should die, think only this of me In a vision of the night I saw them In lonely watches night by night In the face of death, they say, he joked—he had no fear In the glad revels, in the happy fetes It is portentous, and a thing of state It was silent in the street

Land of the desolate, Mother of tears Land of the Martyrs—of the martyred dead Led by Wilhelm, as you tell Lest the young soldiers be strange in heaven Low and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered

Men of my blood, you English men! Men of the Twenty-first Moon, slow rising, over the trembling sea-rim Mother and child! Though the dividing sea My leg? It's off at the knee My name is Darino, the poet. You have heard? Oui, Comedie Francaise

Nay, nay, sweet England, do not grieve Near where the royal victims fell No Man's Land is an eerie sight No more old England will they see Not long did we lie on the torn, red field of pain Not since Wren's Dome has whispered with man's prayer Not with her ruined silver spires Now is the midnight of the nations: dark Now lamp-lit gardens in the blue dusk shine Now slowly sinks the day-long labouring sun Now spake the Emperor to all his shining battle forces

O gracious ones, we bless your name O living pictures of the dead O race that Caesar knew Of all my dreams by night and day Often I think of you, Jimmy Doane Oh, down by the Millwall Basin as I went the other day Oh, red is the English rose Oh! yon hills are filled with sunlight, and the green leaves paled to gold Our little hour,—how swift it flies Out where the line of battle cleaves Over the twilight field

Qui vive? Who passes by up there? Quiet thou didst stand at thine appointed place

Robbed mother of the stricken Motherland

Saints have adored the lofty soul of you See you that stretch of shell-torn mud spotted with pools of mire Shadow by shadow, stripped for fight She came not into the Presence as a martyred saint might come She was binding the wounds of her enemies when they came Shyly expectant, gazing up at Her Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea

The battery grides and jingles The falling rain is music overhead The first to climb the parapet The horror-haunted Belgian plains riven by shot and shell The naked earth is warm with Spring The road that runs up to Messines The starshells float above, the bayonets glisten There are five men in the moonlight There is a hill in England There is wild water from the north They had hot scent across the spumy sea They sent him back to her. The letter came This is my faith, and my mind's heritage This is the ballad of Langemarck This was the gleam then that lured from far Those who have stood for thy cause when the dark was around thee Thou warden of the western gate, above Manhattan Bay Thou, whose deep ways are in the sea Three hundred thousand men, but not enough To the Judge of Right and Wrong 'T was in the piping time of peace

Under our curtain of fire Under the tow-path past the barges Unflinching hero, watchful to foresee

Was there love once? I have forgotten her We are here in a wood of little beeches We challenged Death. He threw with weighted dice We may not know how fared your soul before We willed it not. We have not lived in hate What have I given What is the gift we have given thee, Sister? What of the faith and fire within us What was it kept you so long, brave German submersible? When battles were fought When consciousness came back, he found he lay When first I saw you in the curious street When the fire sinks in the grate, and night has bent When there is Peace our land no more Whence not unmoved I see the nations form Wherever war, with its red woes With arrows on their quarters and with numbers on their hoofs With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children

Ye sleepers, who will sing you You dare to say with perjured lips You have become a forge of snow-white fire

THE END