When consciousness came back, he found he layBetween the opposing fires, but could not tellOn which hand were his friends; and either wayFor him to turn was chancy—bullet and shellWhistling and shrieking over him, as the glareOf 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 scoopedAt random in a turnip-field betweenThe unseen trenches where the foes lay coopedThrough that unending-battle of unseen,Dead-locked, league-stretching armies; and quite spentHe 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 skyShrapnel and shell went screeching overhead—Of all it meant that he, Tom Dodd, should lieAmong 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 chairThe way his mother'd taught him—too dog-tiredAfter 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 lainIn muddy trenches, napping like a beastWith one eye open, under sun and rainAnd that unceasing hell-fire….It was strangeHow things turned out—the chances! You'd just gotTo take your luck in life, you couldn't changeYour luck.And so here he was lying shotWho just six months ago had thought to spendHis days behind a counter. Still, perhaps….And now, God only knew how he would end!
He'd like to know how many of the chapsHad won back to the trench alive, when heHad fallen wounded and been left for dead,If any!…This was different, certainly,From selling knots of tape and reels of threadAnd knots of tape and reels of thread and knotsOf tape and reels of thread and knots of tape,Day in, day out, and answering "Have you got"'sAnd "Do you keep"'s till there seemed no escapeFrom everlasting serving in a shop,Inquiring what each customer required,Politely talking weather, fit to drop,With swollen ankles, tired….But he was tiredNow. Every bone was aching, and had achedFor fourteen days and nights in that wet trench—Just duller when he slept than when he waked—Crouching for shelter from the steady drenchOf shell and shrapnel….That old trench, it seemedAlmost like home to him. He'd slept and fedAnd sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel screamedAnd 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 stickEating 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 skyA shell fell bursting…. Where the butter went,God only knew!…And Dick…. He dared not thinkOf what had come to Dick…. or what it meant—The shrieking and the whistling and the stinkHe'd lived in fourteen days and nights. 'T was luckThat he still lived…. And queer how little thenHe seemed to care that Dick…. perhaps 't was pluckThat 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 hitHe hadn't turned a hair. The meanest skunkHe should have thought would feel it when his mateWas 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 letHis 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 luckFrom first to last; and you'd just got to trustYour luck and grin. It wasn't so much pluckAs knowing that you'd got to, when needs must,And better to die grinning….Quiet nowHad fallen on the night. On either handThe guns were quiet. Cool upon his browThe quiet darkness brooded, as he scannedThe starry sky. He'd never seen beforeSo many stars. Although, of course, he'd knownThat there were stars, somehow before the warHe'd never realised them—so thick-sown,Millions and millions. Serving in the shop,Stars didn't count for much; and then at nightsStrolling 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 skyAs he'd seen this last fortnight. It was queerThe things war taught you. He'd a mind to tryTo 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 shopHe handled knots of tape and reels of thread,Politely talking weather, fit to drop….
When once again the whole sky overheadFlared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shellAnd scream of shrapnel roused him. DrowsilyHe stared about him, wondering. Then he fellInto deep dreamless slumber.
* * * * *
He could seeTwo dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knewHe 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 skyBig dragon-flies hung hovering…. Snowballs burstAbout them…. Flies and snowballs. With a cryHe crouched to watch the airmen pass—the firstThat 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 itThe whole flock followed safe—four, five, six, seven,Yes, they were all there safe. He hoped they'd winBack to their lines in safety. They deserved,Even if they were Germans…. 'T was no sinTo wish them luck. Think how that beggar swervedJust in the nick of time!He, too, must tryTo win back to the lines, though, likely as not,He'd take the wrong turn: but he couldn't lieForever in that hungry hole and rot,He'd got to take his luck, to take his chanceOf being sniped by foes or friends. He'd beWith any luck in Germany or FranceOr Kingdom-come, next morning….DrearilyThe blazing day burnt over him, shot and shellWhistling and whining ceaselessly. But lightFaded at last, and as the darkness fellHe rose, and crawled away into the night.
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
(AFTER W.H. LEATHAM'SThe Comrade in White)
Under our curtain of fire,Over the clotted clods,We charged, to be withered, to reelAnd despairingly wheelWhen the bugles bade us retireFrom the terrible odds.
As we ebbed with the battle-tide,Fingers of red-hot steelSuddenly closed on my side.I fell, and began to pray.I crawled on my hands and layWhere 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 awayTheir trenches were.In torture I prayed for the darkAnd the stealthy step of my friendWho, staunch to the very end,Would creep to the danger zoneAnd offer his life as a markTo save my own.
Night fell. I heard his tread,Not stealthy, but firm and serene,As if my comrade's headWere lifted far from that sceneOf passion and pain and dread;As if my comrade's heartIn carnage took no part;As if my comrade's feetWere set on some radiant streetSuch 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 lightI saw he was clad in white.For a moment I thought that I saw the smockOf a shepherd in search of his flock.Alert were the enemy, too,And their bullets flewStraight 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 strideHe came,And gathering my tall frame,Like a child, in his arms….
Again I swooned,And awokeFrom a blissful dreamIn 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 manWho 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 himNever 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 thereAnd fell in the dirt,The wounds of my friendSeemed to me such as no man might bear.Those bullet-holes in the patient handsSeemed to transcendAll horrors that ever these war-drenched landsHad known or would know till the mad world's end.Then suddenly I was awareThat 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
THE WOUNDED CANADIAN SPEAKS:My leg? It's off at the knee.Do I miss it? Well, some. You seeI've had it since I was born;And lately a devilish corn.(I rather chuckle with gleeTo 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 passShudder and turn away;Turn away in distress….Mirror enough, I guess.I'm gay! You bet Iamgay,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 fineWishing 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.
Thatpoiluacross the way,With the shrapnel wound on his head,Has a sister: she came to-dayTo 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 frère, comme je suis heureuse!"
So over the blanket's rimI 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 yetAs 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 thatmalheureux?"Then briefly I heard him tell(However he came to know)How I'd smothered a bomb that fellInto the trench, and soNone 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 soI saw her, graceful and slim,And she kissed him and kissed him, and ohHow I envied and envied him!
So when she was gone I saidIn rather a dreary voiceTo 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 powerTo say: "God bless you, dear!"And I felt such a precious tearPall 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 dayWill I forget, forget!Can you wonder now I am gay?God bless her, that little Fleurette!
Robert W. Service
They sent him back to her. The letter cameSaying … and she could have him. And beforeShe could be sure there was no hidden illUnder 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 allAnd still she had all—theyhad—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 careAnd medicine and rest—and you a week,Can cure me of to go again." The sameGrim giving to do over for them both.She dared no more than ask him with her eyesHow 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
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 redSweet wine of youth; gave up the years to beOf 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.
These hearts were woven of human joys and caresWashed 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; knownSlumber 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 laughterAnd lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that danceAnd wandering loveliness. He leaves a whiteUnbroken glory, a gathered radiance,A width, a shining peace, under the night.
Rupert Brooke
Here, where we stood together, we three men,Before the war had swept us to the EastThree thousand miles away, I stand againAnd 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 beenNearer, 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 stoodAs I stand now, with pulses beating blood.
I saw her like a shadow on the skyIn 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
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 royalSings sorrow up into immortal spheres,There is music in the midst of desolationAnd 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 morningWe 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 knownAs 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
Saints have adored the lofty soul of you.Poets have whitened at your high renown.We stand among the many millions whoDo hourly wait to pass your pathway down.You, so familiar, once were strange: we triedTo live as of your presence unaware.But now in every road on every sideWe see your straight and steadfast signpost there.
I think it like that signpost in my landHoary and tall, which pointed me to goUpward, into the hills, on the right hand,Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow,A homeless land and friendless, but a landI did not know and that I wished to know.
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 seenSo 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 yesterdaySo poor, so manifestly incomplete.And your bright Promise, withered long and sped,Is touched, stirs, rises, opens and grows sweetAnd blossoms and is you, when you are dead.
Charles Hamilton Sorley
June 12, 1915
Nay, nay, sweet England, do not grieve!Not one of these poor men who diedBut did within his soul believeThat death for thee was glorified.
Ever they watched it hovering nearThat mystery 'yond thought to plumb,Perchance sometimes in loathed fearThey heard cold Danger whisper, Come!—
Heard and obeyed. O, if thou weepSuch courage and honour, beauty, care,Be it for joy that those who sleepOnly thy joy could share.
Walter de la Mare
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 greetOur pleasant friends in home and street;We still have life, are able stillTo 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 againBeneath the brown and gold and redWhich 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 eyeAnd limbs all tumbled anyhow:Quite finished, now.On every heart—lest we forget—Secure at home—engrave this debt!
Too delicate is flesh to beThe 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 hieTo 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 seeThe old secure felicity,The kindnesses that made us gladBefore 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 beAnd all our lives go on the same(Although to live is almost shame).
E.V. Lucas
In lonely watches night by nightGreat visions burst upon my sight,For down the stretches of the skyThe 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 eyesAre lit with starlight from the skies.
The anguish and the pain have passedAnd peace hath come to them at last,But in the stern looks linger stillThe iron purpose and the will.
Dear Christ, who reign'st above the floodOf 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
Ye sleepers, who will sing you?We can but give our tears—Ye dead men, who shall bring youFame in the coming years?Brave souls … but who remembersThe flame that fired your embers?…Deep, deep the sleep that holds youWho one time had no peers.
Yet maybe Fame's but seemingAnd praise you'd set aside,Content to go on dreaming,Yea, happy to have diedIf 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 EnglandA strength that shall not ceaseTill she have won for all the EarthFrom ruthless men release,And made supreme upon herMercy and Truth and Honour—Is this the thing you died for?Oh, Brothers, sleep in peace!
Robert Ernest Vernède
Lest the young soldiers be strange in heaven,God bids the old soldier they all adoredCome 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
Unflinching hero, watchful to foreseeAnd face thy country's peril wheresoe'er,Directing war and peace with equal care,Till by long duty ennobled thou wert heWhom England call'd and bade "Set my arm freeTo obey my will and save my honour fair,"—What day the foe presumed on her despairAnd she herself had trust in none but thee:
Among Herculean deeds the miracleThat mass'd the labour of ten years in oneShall be thy monument. Thy work was doneEre we could thank thee; and the high sea swellSurgeth unheeding where thy proud ship fellBy the lone Orkneys, at the set of sun.
Robert Bridges
June 8, 1916
There is wild water from the north;The headlands darken in their foamAs with a threat of challenge stubborn earthBooms at that far wild sea-line charging home.
The night shall stand upon the shifting seaAs 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 masteryThat screams to hear the thunder in those cries.But now henceforth there shall be heardFrom Brough of Bursay, Marwick Head,And shadows of the distant coast,Another voice bestirred—Telling of something greatly lostSomewhere below the tidal glooms, and dead.Beyond the uttermostOf aught the night may hear on any seasFrom tempest-known wild water's cry, and roarOf iron shadows looming from the shore,It shall be heard—and when the OrcadesSleep in a hushed Atlantic's starry foldsAs smoothly as, far down below the tides,Sleep on the windless broad sea-woldsWhere this night's shipwreck hides.
By many a sea-holm where the shockOf ocean's battle falls, and into sprayGives up its ghosts of strife; by reef and rockRavaged by their eternal brute affrayWith monstrous frenzies of their shore's green foe;Where overstream and overfall and undertowStrive, 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 mindsAnd bid them steer as wistfully—Saying: "He did great work, until the windsAnd waters hereabout that night betrayedHim 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 starshells float above, the bayonets glisten;We bear our fallen friend without a sound;Below the waiting legions lie and listenTo 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 listenTo us, who march upon their burial-ground.
Herbert Asquith
1915
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 partCan I return to thee,O stricken heart,That thou shouldst break for me?
The wind of DeathFor you has slain life's flowers,It withereth(God grant) all weeds in ours.
F.W. Bourdillon
"I cannot quite remember…. There were fiveDropt dead beside me in the trench—and threeWhispered 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 fiveDropt dead beside me in the trench, and threeWhispered 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 fiveDropt dead beside me in the trench—and threeWhispered their dying messages to me…."
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
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 oneWho 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 jestShe worshipped God and him.
She knew—O Love, O Death!—his soul had been at gripsWith the most solemn things. Forshe, wasshenot dear?Yes, he was brave, most brave, with laughter on his lips,The braver for his fear!
G. Rostrevor Hamilton
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 brainCleared of the wingèd nightmares, and the breastFreed 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 foeSpoke of small things, remembering not old woeOf 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
We may not know how fared your soul beforeOccasion 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 strainImpelled you then, or blood of humble clodDefied the dread adventure to attainThe cross of honor or the peace of God.
We see but this, that when the moment cameYou 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
I never knew you save as all men knowTwitter of mating birds, flutter of wingsIn 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
We challenged Death. He threw with weighted dice.We laughed and paid the forfeit, glad to pay—Being recompensed beyond our sacrificeWith that nor Death nor Time can take away.
Francis Bickley
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 cornFor the men who sleep and never return.But wherever they lie an English roseSo red, and a lily of France so pale,Will grow for a love that never and never can fail.
Charles Alexander Richmond
Over the twilight field,Over the glimmering fieldAnd bleeding furrows, with their sodden yieldOf sheaves that still did writhe,After the scythe;The teeming field, and darkly overstrewnWith 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 MoonWho stood, who gazedOn 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 worthA star's while to look on, and light the earth;And I, for ever telling to my mindGlory it was and gladness, to give birthTo 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 giveMy life, that men might live,For this.
"You will be laughing now, rememberingWe called you once Dead World, and barren thing.Yes, so we called you then,You, far more wiseThan to give life to men."
Over the field that thereGave back the skiesA scattered upward stareFrom sightless eyes,The furrowed field that layStriving awhile, through many a bleeding duneOf throbbing clay,—but dumb and quiet soon,She looked; and went her way,The Harvest Moon.
Josephine Preston Peabody
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-wreckGropes 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
Here is his little cambric frockThat I laid by in lavender so sweet,And here his tiny shoe and sockI 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 sandTo 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 heartWhen 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 shieldMy son, and bring him safely back to me!
Ada Tyrrell
This was the gleam then that lured from farYour son and my son to the Holy War:Your son and my son for the accoladeWith 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
I went upon a journeyTo countries far away,From province unto provinceTo pass my holiday.
And when I came to Serbia,In a quiet little townAt an inn with a flower-filled gardenWith 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 hairCalled me his friend and showed meA flowing river there.
Now he lies dead at Lemberg,Beside another stream,In his dark eyes extinguishedThe friendship of his dream.
And then I crossed two countriesWhose names on my lips are sealed….Not yet had they flung their challengeNor led upon the field
Sons who lie dead at Liège,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 beSome 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 meWith bread and fruit and wine.
Now he lies dead at Cambrai—He was sent among the first.In dreams she sees him dyingOf wounds, of heat, of thirst.
At last I passed to DoverAnd saw upon the shoreA tall young English captainAnd 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
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 rememberHow 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
Robbed mother of the stricken Motherland—Two hearts in one and one among the dead,Before your grave with an uncovered headI, that am man, disquiet and silent standIn reverence. It is your blood they shed;It is your sacred self that they demand,For one you bore in joy and hope, and plannedWould make yourself eternal, now has fled.
But though you yielded him unto the knifeAnd altar with a royal sacrificeOf your most precious self and dearer life—Your master gem and pearl above all price—Content you; for the dawn this night restoresShall be the dayspring of his soul and yours.
Eden Phillpotts
I feel the spring far off, far off,The faint, far scent of bud and leaf—Oh, how can spring take heart to comeTo 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 onFor 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 swayOver the graves,New graves?
Under the boughs where lovers walkedThe apple-blooms will shed their breath—But what of all the lovers nowParted by Death,Grey Death?
Sara Teasdale
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 aSub-Lieutenant in the Royal Naval Air Service.
BINYON, LAURENCE. His war writings includeThe Winnowing FanandTheAnvil, published in America under the title ofThe 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; andRupert Brooke, by Moray Dalton. His war poetry appears in the volume entitled1914 and other Poems, and in hisCollected Poems.
CAMPBELL, WILFRED. This well-known Canadian poet has lately publishedSagas of Vaster Britain, War Lyrics, andCanada's Responsibility to the Empire. His son, Captain Basil Campbell, joined the Second Pioneers.
CHESTERTON, CECIL EDWARD. He has been editor of theNew Witnesssince 1912, and is a private in the Highland Light Infantry. His war writings includeThe Prussian hath said in his Heart, andThe Perils of Peace.
CHESTERTON, GILBERT KEITH. This brilliant and versatile author has written many essays on phases of the war, including weekly contributions toThe Illustrated London News.
CONE, HELEN GRAY. She has been Professor of English in Hunter College since 1899. Her war poetry appears in the volume entitledA 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 andLiterature in the University of Glasgow. His war writings includeTheBritish Navy at WarandThe 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 theBacteriological Mission to Galicia, 1914.
GALSWORTHY, JOHN. Mr. Galsworthy, the well-known novelist, poet, and dramatist, served for several months as an expertmasseurin an English hospital for French soldiers at Martouret.
GIBSON, WILFRID WILSON. His war writings includeBattle, 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 ofKitchener's MobandHigh 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 titleSing-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 entitledFleur de Lys.
HUTCHINSON, HENRY WILLIAM. He was the son of Sir Sidney Hutchinson, andwas educated at St. Paul's School. He was a Second Lieutenant in theMiddlesex Regiment. He was killed while on active service in France,March 13, 1917, at the age of nineteen.
KAUFMAN, HERBERT. He has publishedThe Song of the Guns, which was later republished asThe Hell-Gate of Soissons.
KIPLING, RUDYARD. Mr. Kipling won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1907. His war writings includeThe New Armies in Training, France at War, andSea 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 entitledBallads 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 NavalDivision, and is a Prisoner of War in Holland.
NEWBOLT, SIR HENRY. He is the author ofThe Book of the Thin Red Line, Story of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry, andStories of the Great War.
NOYES, ALFRED. His war writings includeA 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 includeAustralia and Other Verses.
OSWALD, SYDNEY. He is a Major in the King's Royal Rifle Corps.
PHILLIPS, STEPHEN. His war writings includeArmageddon, etc. He diedDecember 9, 1915.
PHILLPOTTS, EDEN. Among his war writings areThe Human Boy and theWar, andPlain Song, 1914-16.
RATCLIFFE, A. VICTOR. He was a Lieutenant in the 10th/13th WestYorkshire Regiment, and was killed in action on July 1, 1916.
RAWNSLEY, REV. HARDWICKE DRUMMOND. He has been Canon of Carlisle andHonorary Chaplain to the King since 1912.
ROBERTSON, ALEXANDER. He is a Corporal in the Twelfth York and LancasterRegiment. He was reported "missing" in July, 1916.
ROSS, SIR RONALD. He is the President of the Poetry Society of GreatBritain, and is a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Royal Army Medical Corps.
SCOLLARD, CLINTON. His war writings includeThe Vale of Shadows, andOther Verses of the Great War, andItaly in Arms, and Other Verses.
SCOTT, CANON FREDERICK GEORGE. He is a Major in the Third Brigade of theFirst Canadian Division, British Expeditionary Force.
SEAMAN, SIR OWEN. He has been the editor ofPunchsince 1906. His war writings includeWar-TimeandMade 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 collectedPoems 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 entitledMarlborough and other Poems, published by the Cambridge University Press.
STEWART, J.E. He is a Captain in the Eighth Border Regiment, BritishExpeditionary 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 includeThe 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.
VERNÈDE, 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 includeRailhead, and other Poems. He is reported "missing."
WHARTON, EDITH. She has writtenFighting France, etc.