POEMS FROM CAMP AND TRENCH

And like the artist who createsFrom dying things what never dies....Fragment.

And like the artist who creates

From dying things what never dies....

Fragment.

DAUGHTERS OF WAR

Space beats the ruddy freedom of their limbs,Their naked dances with man’s spirit nakedBy the root side of the tree of life(The under side of thingsAnd shut from earth’s profoundest eyes).I saw in prophetic gleamsThese mighty daughters in their dancesBeckon each soul aghast from its crimson corpseTo mix in their glittering dances:I heard the mighty daughters’ giant sighsIn sleepless passion for the sons of valourAnd envy of the days of flesh,Barring their love with mortal boughs across—The mortal boughs, the mortal tree of life.The old bark burnt with iron warsThey blow to a live flameTo char the young green daysAnd reach the occult soul; they have no softer lure,No softer lure than the savage ways of death.We were satisfied of our lords the moon and the sunTo take our wage of sleep and bread and warmth—These maidens came—these strong everliving Amazons,And in an easy might their wristsOf night’s sway and noon’s sway the sceptres brake,Clouding the wild, the soft lustres of our eyes.Clouding the wild lustres, the clinging tender lights;Driving the darkness into the flame of dayWith the Amazonian wind of themOver our corroding facesThat must be broken—broken for evermore,So the soul can leap outInto their huge embraces.Though there are human facesBest sculptures of Deity,And sinews lusted afterBy the Archangels tall,Even these must leap to the love-heat of these maidensFrom the flame of terrene days,Leaving grey ashes to the wind—to the wind.One (whose great lifted face,Where wisdom’s strength and beauty’s strengthAnd the thewed strength of large beastsMoved and merged, gloomed and lit)Was speaking, surely, as the earth-men’s earth fell away;Whose new hearing drank the soundWhere pictures, lutes, and mountains mixedWith the loosed spirit of a thought,Essenced to language thus—“My sisters force their malesFrom the doomed earth, from the doomed gleeAnd hankering of hearts.Frail hands gleam up through the human quagmire, and lips of ashSeem to wail, as in sad faded paintingsFar-sunken and strange.My sisters have their malesClean of the dust of old daysThat clings about those white handsAnd yearns in those voices sad:But these shall not see them,Or think of them in any days or years;They are my sisters’ lovers in other days and years.”

Space beats the ruddy freedom of their limbs,Their naked dances with man’s spirit nakedBy the root side of the tree of life(The under side of thingsAnd shut from earth’s profoundest eyes).

Space beats the ruddy freedom of their limbs,

Their naked dances with man’s spirit naked

By the root side of the tree of life

(The under side of things

And shut from earth’s profoundest eyes).

I saw in prophetic gleamsThese mighty daughters in their dancesBeckon each soul aghast from its crimson corpseTo mix in their glittering dances:I heard the mighty daughters’ giant sighsIn sleepless passion for the sons of valourAnd envy of the days of flesh,Barring their love with mortal boughs across—The mortal boughs, the mortal tree of life.The old bark burnt with iron warsThey blow to a live flameTo char the young green daysAnd reach the occult soul; they have no softer lure,No softer lure than the savage ways of death.

I saw in prophetic gleams

These mighty daughters in their dances

Beckon each soul aghast from its crimson corpse

To mix in their glittering dances:

I heard the mighty daughters’ giant sighs

In sleepless passion for the sons of valour

And envy of the days of flesh,

Barring their love with mortal boughs across—

The mortal boughs, the mortal tree of life.

The old bark burnt with iron wars

They blow to a live flame

To char the young green days

And reach the occult soul; they have no softer lure,

No softer lure than the savage ways of death.

We were satisfied of our lords the moon and the sunTo take our wage of sleep and bread and warmth—These maidens came—these strong everliving Amazons,And in an easy might their wristsOf night’s sway and noon’s sway the sceptres brake,Clouding the wild, the soft lustres of our eyes.

We were satisfied of our lords the moon and the sun

To take our wage of sleep and bread and warmth—

These maidens came—these strong everliving Amazons,

And in an easy might their wrists

Of night’s sway and noon’s sway the sceptres brake,

Clouding the wild, the soft lustres of our eyes.

Clouding the wild lustres, the clinging tender lights;Driving the darkness into the flame of dayWith the Amazonian wind of themOver our corroding facesThat must be broken—broken for evermore,So the soul can leap outInto their huge embraces.Though there are human facesBest sculptures of Deity,And sinews lusted afterBy the Archangels tall,Even these must leap to the love-heat of these maidensFrom the flame of terrene days,Leaving grey ashes to the wind—to the wind.

Clouding the wild lustres, the clinging tender lights;

Driving the darkness into the flame of day

With the Amazonian wind of them

Over our corroding faces

That must be broken—broken for evermore,

So the soul can leap out

Into their huge embraces.

Though there are human faces

Best sculptures of Deity,

And sinews lusted after

By the Archangels tall,

Even these must leap to the love-heat of these maidens

From the flame of terrene days,

Leaving grey ashes to the wind—to the wind.

One (whose great lifted face,Where wisdom’s strength and beauty’s strengthAnd the thewed strength of large beastsMoved and merged, gloomed and lit)Was speaking, surely, as the earth-men’s earth fell away;Whose new hearing drank the soundWhere pictures, lutes, and mountains mixedWith the loosed spirit of a thought,Essenced to language thus—

One (whose great lifted face,

Where wisdom’s strength and beauty’s strength

And the thewed strength of large beasts

Moved and merged, gloomed and lit)

Was speaking, surely, as the earth-men’s earth fell away;

Whose new hearing drank the sound

Where pictures, lutes, and mountains mixed

With the loosed spirit of a thought,

Essenced to language thus—

“My sisters force their malesFrom the doomed earth, from the doomed gleeAnd hankering of hearts.Frail hands gleam up through the human quagmire, and lips of ashSeem to wail, as in sad faded paintingsFar-sunken and strange.My sisters have their malesClean of the dust of old daysThat clings about those white handsAnd yearns in those voices sad:But these shall not see them,Or think of them in any days or years;They are my sisters’ lovers in other days and years.”

“My sisters force their males

From the doomed earth, from the doomed glee

And hankering of hearts.

Frail hands gleam up through the human quagmire, and lips of ash

Seem to wail, as in sad faded paintings

Far-sunken and strange.

My sisters have their males

Clean of the dust of old days

That clings about those white hands

And yearns in those voices sad:

But these shall not see them,

Or think of them in any days or years;

They are my sisters’ lovers in other days and years.”

ON RECEIVING THE FIRST NEWS OF THE WAR

Snow is a strange white word;No ice or frostHas asked of bud or birdFor Winter’s cost.Yet ice and frost and snowFrom earth to skyThis Summer land doth know;No man knows why.In all men’s hearts it is:Some spirit oldHath turned with malign kissOur lives to mould.Red fangs have torn His face,God’s blood is shed:He mourns from His lone placeHis children dead.O ancient crimson curse!Corrode, consume;Give back this universeIts pristine bloom.

Snow is a strange white word;No ice or frostHas asked of bud or birdFor Winter’s cost.

Snow is a strange white word;

No ice or frost

Has asked of bud or bird

For Winter’s cost.

Yet ice and frost and snowFrom earth to skyThis Summer land doth know;No man knows why.

Yet ice and frost and snow

From earth to sky

This Summer land doth know;

No man knows why.

In all men’s hearts it is:Some spirit oldHath turned with malign kissOur lives to mould.

In all men’s hearts it is:

Some spirit old

Hath turned with malign kiss

Our lives to mould.

Red fangs have torn His face,God’s blood is shed:He mourns from His lone placeHis children dead.

Red fangs have torn His face,

God’s blood is shed:

He mourns from His lone place

His children dead.

O ancient crimson curse!Corrode, consume;Give back this universeIts pristine bloom.

O ancient crimson curse!

Corrode, consume;

Give back this universe

Its pristine bloom.

Cape Town, 1914.

SPRING, 1916

Slow, rigid, is this masqueradeThat passes as through a difficult air:Heavily—heavily passes.What has she fed on? Who her table laidThrough the three seasons? What forbidden fareRuined her as a mortal lass is?I played with her two years ago,Who might be now her own sister in stone;So altered from her May mien,When round the pink a necklace of warm snowLaughed to her throat where my mouth’s touch had gone.How is this, ruined Queen?Who lured her vivid beauty soTo be that strained chill thing that movesSo ghastly midst her young broodOf pregnant shoots that she for men did grow?Where are the strong men who made these their loves?Spring! God pity your mood!

Slow, rigid, is this masquerade

That passes as through a difficult air:

Heavily—heavily passes.

What has she fed on? Who her table laid

Through the three seasons? What forbidden fare

Ruined her as a mortal lass is?

I played with her two years ago,Who might be now her own sister in stone;So altered from her May mien,When round the pink a necklace of warm snowLaughed to her throat where my mouth’s touch had gone.How is this, ruined Queen?

I played with her two years ago,

Who might be now her own sister in stone;

So altered from her May mien,

When round the pink a necklace of warm snow

Laughed to her throat where my mouth’s touch had gone.

How is this, ruined Queen?

Who lured her vivid beauty soTo be that strained chill thing that movesSo ghastly midst her young broodOf pregnant shoots that she for men did grow?Where are the strong men who made these their loves?Spring! God pity your mood!

Who lured her vivid beauty so

To be that strained chill thing that moves

So ghastly midst her young brood

Of pregnant shoots that she for men did grow?

Where are the strong men who made these their loves?

Spring! God pity your mood!

THE TROOP SHIP

Grotesque and queerly huddledContortionists to twistThe sleepy soul to a sleep,We lie all sorts of waysAnd cannot sleep.The wet wind is so cold,And the lurching men so careless,That, should you drop to a doze,Winds’ fumble or men’s feetAre on your face.

Grotesque and queerly huddled

Contortionists to twist

The sleepy soul to a sleep,

We lie all sorts of ways

And cannot sleep.

The wet wind is so cold,

And the lurching men so careless,

That, should you drop to a doze,

Winds’ fumble or men’s feet

Are on your face.

MARCHING

(AS SEEN FROM THE LEFT FILE).

My eyes catch ruddy necksSturdily pressed back—All a red-brick moving glint.Like flaming pendulums, handsSwing across the khaki—Mustard-coloured khaki—To the automatic feet.We husband the ancient gloryIn these bared necks and hands.Not broke is the forge of Mars;But a subtler brain beats ironTo shoe the hoofs of death(Who paws dynamic air now).Blind fingers loose an iron cloudTo rain immortal darknessOn strong eyes.

My eyes catch ruddy necksSturdily pressed back—All a red-brick moving glint.Like flaming pendulums, handsSwing across the khaki—Mustard-coloured khaki—To the automatic feet.

My eyes catch ruddy necks

Sturdily pressed back—

All a red-brick moving glint.

Like flaming pendulums, hands

Swing across the khaki—

Mustard-coloured khaki—

To the automatic feet.

We husband the ancient gloryIn these bared necks and hands.Not broke is the forge of Mars;But a subtler brain beats ironTo shoe the hoofs of death(Who paws dynamic air now).Blind fingers loose an iron cloudTo rain immortal darknessOn strong eyes.

We husband the ancient glory

In these bared necks and hands.

Not broke is the forge of Mars;

But a subtler brain beats iron

To shoe the hoofs of death

(Who paws dynamic air now).

Blind fingers loose an iron cloud

To rain immortal darkness

On strong eyes.

BREAK OF DAY IN THE TRENCHES

The darkness crumbles away—It is the same old druid Time as ever.Only a live thing leaps my hand—A queer sardonic rat—As I pull the parapet’s poppyTo stick behind my ear.Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knewYour cosmopolitan sympathies(And God knows what antipathies).Now you have touched this English handYou will do the same to a German—Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasureTo cross the sleeping green between.It seems you inwardly grin as you passStrong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletesLess chanced than you for life,Bonds to the whims of murder,Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,The torn fields of France.What do you see in our eyesAt the shrieking iron and flameHurled through still heavens?What quaver—what heart aghast?Poppies whose roots are in man’s veinsDrop, and are ever dropping;But mine in my ear is safe,Just a little white with the dust.

The darkness crumbles away—

It is the same old druid Time as ever.

Only a live thing leaps my hand—

A queer sardonic rat—

As I pull the parapet’s poppy

To stick behind my ear.

Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew

Your cosmopolitan sympathies

(And God knows what antipathies).

Now you have touched this English hand

You will do the same to a German—

Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure

To cross the sleeping green between.

It seems you inwardly grin as you pass

Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes

Less chanced than you for life,

Bonds to the whims of murder,

Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,

The torn fields of France.

What do you see in our eyes

At the shrieking iron and flame

Hurled through still heavens?

What quaver—what heart aghast?

Poppies whose roots are in man’s veins

Drop, and are ever dropping;

But mine in my ear is safe,

Just a little white with the dust.

KILLED IN ACTION

Your “Youth”[2]has fallen from its shelf,And you have fallen, you yourself.They knocked a soldier on the head,I mourn the poet who fell dead.And yet I think it was by chance,By oversight you died in France.You were so poor an outward man,So small against your spirit’s span,That Nature, being tired awhile,Saw but your outward human pile;And Nature, who would never letA sun with light still in it set,Before you even reached your sky,In inadvertence let you die.

Your “Youth”[2]has fallen from its shelf,

And you have fallen, you yourself.

They knocked a soldier on the head,

I mourn the poet who fell dead.

And yet I think it was by chance,

By oversight you died in France.

You were so poor an outward man,

So small against your spirit’s span,

That Nature, being tired awhile,

Saw but your outward human pile;

And Nature, who would never let

A sun with light still in it set,

Before you even reached your sky,

In inadvertence let you die.

2. “Youth,” a volume of poems by I. Rosenberg.

RETURNING, WE HEAR THE LARKS

Sombre the night is:And, though we have our lives, we knowWhat sinister threat lurks there.Dragging these anguished limbs, we only knowThis poison-blasted track opens on our camp—On a little safe sleep.But hark! Joy—joy—strange joy.Lo! Heights of night ringing with unseen larks:Music showering on our upturned listening faces.Death could drop from the darkAs easily as song—But song only dropped,Like a blind man’s dreams on the sandBy dangerous tides;Like a girl’s dark hair, for she dreams no ruin lies there,Or her kisses where a serpent hides.

Sombre the night is:And, though we have our lives, we knowWhat sinister threat lurks there.

Sombre the night is:

And, though we have our lives, we know

What sinister threat lurks there.

Dragging these anguished limbs, we only knowThis poison-blasted track opens on our camp—On a little safe sleep.

Dragging these anguished limbs, we only know

This poison-blasted track opens on our camp—

On a little safe sleep.

But hark! Joy—joy—strange joy.Lo! Heights of night ringing with unseen larks:Music showering on our upturned listening faces.

But hark! Joy—joy—strange joy.

Lo! Heights of night ringing with unseen larks:

Music showering on our upturned listening faces.

Death could drop from the darkAs easily as song—But song only dropped,Like a blind man’s dreams on the sandBy dangerous tides;Like a girl’s dark hair, for she dreams no ruin lies there,Or her kisses where a serpent hides.

Death could drop from the dark

As easily as song—

But song only dropped,

Like a blind man’s dreams on the sand

By dangerous tides;

Like a girl’s dark hair, for she dreams no ruin lies there,

Or her kisses where a serpent hides.

THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY THE BABYLONIAN HORDES

They left their Babylon bareOf all its tall men,Of all its proud horses;They made for Lebanon.And shadowy sowers wentBefore their spears to sowThe fruit whose taste is ash,For Judah’s soul to know.They who bowed to the Bull god,Whose wings roofed Babylon,In endless hosts darkenedThe bright-heavened Lebanon.They washed their grime in poolsWhere laughing girls forgotThe wiles they used for Solomon.Sweet laughter, remembered not!Sweet laughter charred in the flameThat clutched the cloud and earth,While Solomon’s towers crashed betweenTo a gird of Babylon’s mirth.

They left their Babylon bareOf all its tall men,Of all its proud horses;They made for Lebanon.

They left their Babylon bare

Of all its tall men,

Of all its proud horses;

They made for Lebanon.

And shadowy sowers wentBefore their spears to sowThe fruit whose taste is ash,For Judah’s soul to know.

And shadowy sowers went

Before their spears to sow

The fruit whose taste is ash,

For Judah’s soul to know.

They who bowed to the Bull god,Whose wings roofed Babylon,In endless hosts darkenedThe bright-heavened Lebanon.

They who bowed to the Bull god,

Whose wings roofed Babylon,

In endless hosts darkened

The bright-heavened Lebanon.

They washed their grime in poolsWhere laughing girls forgotThe wiles they used for Solomon.Sweet laughter, remembered not!

They washed their grime in pools

Where laughing girls forgot

The wiles they used for Solomon.

Sweet laughter, remembered not!

Sweet laughter charred in the flameThat clutched the cloud and earth,While Solomon’s towers crashed betweenTo a gird of Babylon’s mirth.

Sweet laughter charred in the flame

That clutched the cloud and earth,

While Solomon’s towers crashed between

To a gird of Babylon’s mirth.

THE BURNING OF THE TEMPLE

Fierce wrath of Solomon,Where sleepest thou? O see,The fabric which thou wonEarth and ocean to give thee—O look at the red skies.Or hath the sun plunged down?What is this molten gold—These thundering fires blownThrough heaven, where the smoke rolled?Again the great king dies.His dreams go out in smoke.His days he let not passAnd sculptured here are broke,Are charred as the burnt grass,Gone as his mouth’s last sighs.

Fierce wrath of Solomon,Where sleepest thou? O see,The fabric which thou wonEarth and ocean to give thee—O look at the red skies.

Fierce wrath of Solomon,

Where sleepest thou? O see,

The fabric which thou won

Earth and ocean to give thee—

O look at the red skies.

Or hath the sun plunged down?What is this molten gold—These thundering fires blownThrough heaven, where the smoke rolled?Again the great king dies.

Or hath the sun plunged down?

What is this molten gold—

These thundering fires blown

Through heaven, where the smoke rolled?

Again the great king dies.

His dreams go out in smoke.His days he let not passAnd sculptured here are broke,Are charred as the burnt grass,Gone as his mouth’s last sighs.

His dreams go out in smoke.

His days he let not pass

And sculptured here are broke,

Are charred as the burnt grass,

Gone as his mouth’s last sighs.

HOME-THOUGHTS FROM FRANCE

Wan, fragile faces of joy,Pitiful mouths that striveTo light with smiles the placeWe dream we walk alive,To you I stretch my hands,Hands shut in pitiless tranceIn a land of ruin and woe,The desolate land of France.Dear faces startled and shaken,Out of wild dust and soundsYou yearn to me, lure and saddenMy heart with futile bounds.

Wan, fragile faces of joy,Pitiful mouths that striveTo light with smiles the placeWe dream we walk alive,

Wan, fragile faces of joy,

Pitiful mouths that strive

To light with smiles the place

We dream we walk alive,

To you I stretch my hands,Hands shut in pitiless tranceIn a land of ruin and woe,The desolate land of France.

To you I stretch my hands,

Hands shut in pitiless trance

In a land of ruin and woe,

The desolate land of France.

Dear faces startled and shaken,Out of wild dust and soundsYou yearn to me, lure and saddenMy heart with futile bounds.

Dear faces startled and shaken,

Out of wild dust and sounds

You yearn to me, lure and sadden

My heart with futile bounds.

THE IMMORTALS

I killed them, but they would not die.Yea, all the day and all the nightFor them I could not rest nor sleep,Nor guard from them nor hide in flight!Then in my agony I turnedAnd made my hands red in their gore.In vain—for faster than I slewThey rose more cruel than before.I killed and killed with slaughter mad;I killed till all my strength was gone;And still they rose to torture me,For Devils only die for fun.I used to think the Devil hidIn women’s smiles and wine’s carouse;I called him Satan, Balzebub;But now I call him dirty louse.

I killed them, but they would not die.Yea, all the day and all the nightFor them I could not rest nor sleep,Nor guard from them nor hide in flight!

I killed them, but they would not die.

Yea, all the day and all the night

For them I could not rest nor sleep,

Nor guard from them nor hide in flight!

Then in my agony I turnedAnd made my hands red in their gore.In vain—for faster than I slewThey rose more cruel than before.

Then in my agony I turned

And made my hands red in their gore.

In vain—for faster than I slew

They rose more cruel than before.

I killed and killed with slaughter mad;I killed till all my strength was gone;And still they rose to torture me,For Devils only die for fun.

I killed and killed with slaughter mad;

I killed till all my strength was gone;

And still they rose to torture me,

For Devils only die for fun.

I used to think the Devil hidIn women’s smiles and wine’s carouse;I called him Satan, Balzebub;But now I call him dirty louse.

I used to think the Devil hid

In women’s smiles and wine’s carouse;

I called him Satan, Balzebub;

But now I call him dirty louse.

LOUSE HUNTING

Nudes, stark and glistening,Yelling in lurid glee. Grinning facesAnd raging limbsWhirl over the floor one fire;For a shirt verminously busyYon soldier tore from his throatWith oathsGodhead might shrink at, but not the lice,And soon the shirt was aflareOver the candle he’d lit while we lay.Then we all sprang up and striptTo hunt the verminous brood.Soon like a demons’ pantomimeThis plunge was raging.See the silhouettes agape,See the gibbering shadowsMixed with the baffled arms on the wall.See Gargantuan hooked fingersPluck in supreme fleshTo smutch supreme littleness.See the merry limbs in that Highland flingBecause some wizard vermin willedTo charm from the quiet this revelWhen our ears were half lulledBy the dark musicBlown from Sleep’s trumpet.

Nudes, stark and glistening,

Yelling in lurid glee. Grinning faces

And raging limbs

Whirl over the floor one fire;

For a shirt verminously busy

Yon soldier tore from his throat

With oaths

Godhead might shrink at, but not the lice,

And soon the shirt was aflare

Over the candle he’d lit while we lay.

Then we all sprang up and striptTo hunt the verminous brood.Soon like a demons’ pantomimeThis plunge was raging.See the silhouettes agape,See the gibbering shadowsMixed with the baffled arms on the wall.See Gargantuan hooked fingersPluck in supreme fleshTo smutch supreme littleness.See the merry limbs in that Highland flingBecause some wizard vermin willedTo charm from the quiet this revelWhen our ears were half lulledBy the dark musicBlown from Sleep’s trumpet.

Then we all sprang up and stript

To hunt the verminous brood.

Soon like a demons’ pantomime

This plunge was raging.

See the silhouettes agape,

See the gibbering shadows

Mixed with the baffled arms on the wall.

See Gargantuan hooked fingers

Pluck in supreme flesh

To smutch supreme littleness.

See the merry limbs in that Highland fling

Because some wizard vermin willed

To charm from the quiet this revel

When our ears were half lulled

By the dark music

Blown from Sleep’s trumpet.

GIRL TO SOLDIER ON LEAVE

I love you, Titan lover,My own storm-days’ Titan.Greater than the son of Zeus,I know whom I would choose.Titan—my splendid rebel—The old PrometheusWanes like a ghost before your power:His pangs were joys to yours.Pallid days, arid and wan,Tied your soul fast:Babel-cities’ smoky topsPressed upon your growthWeary gyves. What were youBut a word in the brain’s ways,Or the sleep of Circe’s swine?One gyve holds you yet.It held you hiddenly on the SommeTied from my heart at home:O must it loosen now? I wishYou were bound with the old, old gyves.Love! You love me—your eyesHave looked through death at mine.You have tempted a grave too much.I let you—I repine.

I love you, Titan lover,My own storm-days’ Titan.Greater than the son of Zeus,I know whom I would choose.

I love you, Titan lover,

My own storm-days’ Titan.

Greater than the son of Zeus,

I know whom I would choose.

Titan—my splendid rebel—The old PrometheusWanes like a ghost before your power:His pangs were joys to yours.

Titan—my splendid rebel—

The old Prometheus

Wanes like a ghost before your power:

His pangs were joys to yours.

Pallid days, arid and wan,Tied your soul fast:Babel-cities’ smoky topsPressed upon your growth

Pallid days, arid and wan,

Tied your soul fast:

Babel-cities’ smoky tops

Pressed upon your growth

Weary gyves. What were youBut a word in the brain’s ways,Or the sleep of Circe’s swine?One gyve holds you yet.

Weary gyves. What were you

But a word in the brain’s ways,

Or the sleep of Circe’s swine?

One gyve holds you yet.

It held you hiddenly on the SommeTied from my heart at home:O must it loosen now? I wishYou were bound with the old, old gyves.

It held you hiddenly on the Somme

Tied from my heart at home:

O must it loosen now? I wish

You were bound with the old, old gyves.

Love! You love me—your eyesHave looked through death at mine.You have tempted a grave too much.I let you—I repine.

Love! You love me—your eyes

Have looked through death at mine.

You have tempted a grave too much.

I let you—I repine.

SOLDIER: TWENTIETH CENTURY

I love you, great new Titan!Am I not you?Napoleon and CæsarOut of you grew.Out of unthinkable torture,Eyes kissed by death,Won back to the world again,Lost and won in a breath,Cruel men are made immortal.Out of your pain born,They have stolen the sun’s powerWith their feet on your shoulders worn.Let them shrink from your girth,That has outgrown the pallid daysWhen you slept like Circe’s swineOr a word in the brain’s ways.

I love you, great new Titan!Am I not you?Napoleon and CæsarOut of you grew.

I love you, great new Titan!

Am I not you?

Napoleon and Cæsar

Out of you grew.

Out of unthinkable torture,Eyes kissed by death,Won back to the world again,Lost and won in a breath,

Out of unthinkable torture,

Eyes kissed by death,

Won back to the world again,

Lost and won in a breath,

Cruel men are made immortal.Out of your pain born,They have stolen the sun’s powerWith their feet on your shoulders worn.

Cruel men are made immortal.

Out of your pain born,

They have stolen the sun’s power

With their feet on your shoulders worn.

Let them shrink from your girth,That has outgrown the pallid daysWhen you slept like Circe’s swineOr a word in the brain’s ways.

Let them shrink from your girth,

That has outgrown the pallid days

When you slept like Circe’s swine

Or a word in the brain’s ways.

THE JEW

Moses, from whose loins I sprung,Lit by a lamp in his bloodTen immutable rules, a moonFor mutable lampless men.The blonde, the bronze, the ruddy,With the same heaving blood,Keep tide to the moon of Moses.Then why do they sneer at me?

Moses, from whose loins I sprung,Lit by a lamp in his bloodTen immutable rules, a moonFor mutable lampless men.

Moses, from whose loins I sprung,

Lit by a lamp in his blood

Ten immutable rules, a moon

For mutable lampless men.

The blonde, the bronze, the ruddy,With the same heaving blood,Keep tide to the moon of Moses.Then why do they sneer at me?

The blonde, the bronze, the ruddy,

With the same heaving blood,

Keep tide to the moon of Moses.

Then why do they sneer at me?

THE DYING SOLDIER

“Here are houses,” he moaned,“I could reach, but my brain swims.”Then they thundered and flashed,And shook the earth to its rims.“They are gunpits,” he gasped,“Our men are at the guns.Water!... Water!... Oh, water!For one of England’s dying sons.”“We cannot give you water,Were all England in your breath.”“Water!... Water!... Oh, water!”He moaned and swooned to death.

“Here are houses,” he moaned,“I could reach, but my brain swims.”Then they thundered and flashed,And shook the earth to its rims.

“Here are houses,” he moaned,

“I could reach, but my brain swims.”

Then they thundered and flashed,

And shook the earth to its rims.

“They are gunpits,” he gasped,“Our men are at the guns.Water!... Water!... Oh, water!For one of England’s dying sons.”

“They are gunpits,” he gasped,

“Our men are at the guns.

Water!... Water!... Oh, water!

For one of England’s dying sons.”

“We cannot give you water,Were all England in your breath.”“Water!... Water!... Oh, water!”He moaned and swooned to death.

“We cannot give you water,

Were all England in your breath.”

“Water!... Water!... Oh, water!”

He moaned and swooned to death.

DEAD MAN’S DUMP

The plunging limbers over the shattered trackRacketed with their rusty freight,Stuck out like many crowns of thorns,And the rusty stakes like sceptres oldTo stay the flood of brutish menUpon our brothers dear.The wheels lurched over sprawled deadBut pained them not, though their bones crunched;Their shut mouths made no moan.They lie there huddled, friend and foeman,Man born of man, and born of woman;And shells go crying over themFrom night till night and now.Earth has waited for them,All the time of their growthFretting for their decay:Now she has them at last!In the strength of their strengthSuspended—stopped and held.What fierce imaginings their dark souls lit?Earth! Have they gone into you?Somewhere they must have gone,And flung on your hard backIs their souls’ sack,Emptied of God-ancestralled essences.Who hurled them out? Who hurled?None saw their spirits’ shadow shake the grass,Or stood aside for the half used life to passOut of those doomed nostrils and the doomed mouth,When the swift iron burning beeDrained the wild honey of their youth.What of us who, flung on the shrieking pyre,Walk, our usual thoughts untouched,Our lucky limbs as on ichor fed,Immortal seeming ever?Perhaps when the flames beat loud on us,A fear may choke in our veinsAnd the startled blood may stop.The air is loud with death,The dark air spurts with fire,The explosions ceaseless are.Timelessly now, some minutes past,These dead strode time with vigorous life,Till the shrapnel called “An end!”But not to all. In bleeding pangsSome borne on stretchers dreamed of home,Dear things, war-blotted from their hearts.A man’s brains splattered onA stretcher-bearer’s face;His shook shoulders slipped their load,But when they bent to look againThe drowning soul was sunk too deepFor human tenderness.They left this dead with the older dead,Stretched at the cross roads.Burnt black by strange decayTheir sinister faces lie,The lid over each eye;The grass and coloured clayMore motion have than they,Joined to the great sunk silences.Here is one not long dead.His dark hearing caught our far wheels,And the choked soul stretched weak handsTo reach the living word the far wheels said;The blood-dazed intelligence beating for light,Crying through the suspense of the far torturing wheelsSwift for the end to breakOr the wheels to break,Cried as the tide of the world broke over his sight,“Will they come? Will they ever come?”Even as the mixed hoofs of the mules,The quivering-bellied mules,And the rushing wheels all mixedWith his tortured upturned sight.So we crashed round the bend,We heard his weak scream,We heard his very last sound,And our wheels grazed his dead face.

The plunging limbers over the shattered track

Racketed with their rusty freight,

Stuck out like many crowns of thorns,

And the rusty stakes like sceptres old

To stay the flood of brutish men

Upon our brothers dear.

The wheels lurched over sprawled deadBut pained them not, though their bones crunched;Their shut mouths made no moan.They lie there huddled, friend and foeman,Man born of man, and born of woman;And shells go crying over themFrom night till night and now.

The wheels lurched over sprawled dead

But pained them not, though their bones crunched;

Their shut mouths made no moan.

They lie there huddled, friend and foeman,

Man born of man, and born of woman;

And shells go crying over them

From night till night and now.

Earth has waited for them,All the time of their growthFretting for their decay:Now she has them at last!In the strength of their strengthSuspended—stopped and held.

Earth has waited for them,

All the time of their growth

Fretting for their decay:

Now she has them at last!

In the strength of their strength

Suspended—stopped and held.

What fierce imaginings their dark souls lit?Earth! Have they gone into you?Somewhere they must have gone,And flung on your hard backIs their souls’ sack,Emptied of God-ancestralled essences.Who hurled them out? Who hurled?

What fierce imaginings their dark souls lit?

Earth! Have they gone into you?

Somewhere they must have gone,

And flung on your hard back

Is their souls’ sack,

Emptied of God-ancestralled essences.

Who hurled them out? Who hurled?

None saw their spirits’ shadow shake the grass,Or stood aside for the half used life to passOut of those doomed nostrils and the doomed mouth,When the swift iron burning beeDrained the wild honey of their youth.

None saw their spirits’ shadow shake the grass,

Or stood aside for the half used life to pass

Out of those doomed nostrils and the doomed mouth,

When the swift iron burning bee

Drained the wild honey of their youth.

What of us who, flung on the shrieking pyre,Walk, our usual thoughts untouched,Our lucky limbs as on ichor fed,Immortal seeming ever?Perhaps when the flames beat loud on us,A fear may choke in our veinsAnd the startled blood may stop.

What of us who, flung on the shrieking pyre,

Walk, our usual thoughts untouched,

Our lucky limbs as on ichor fed,

Immortal seeming ever?

Perhaps when the flames beat loud on us,

A fear may choke in our veins

And the startled blood may stop.

The air is loud with death,The dark air spurts with fire,The explosions ceaseless are.Timelessly now, some minutes past,These dead strode time with vigorous life,Till the shrapnel called “An end!”But not to all. In bleeding pangsSome borne on stretchers dreamed of home,Dear things, war-blotted from their hearts.

The air is loud with death,

The dark air spurts with fire,

The explosions ceaseless are.

Timelessly now, some minutes past,

These dead strode time with vigorous life,

Till the shrapnel called “An end!”

But not to all. In bleeding pangs

Some borne on stretchers dreamed of home,

Dear things, war-blotted from their hearts.

A man’s brains splattered onA stretcher-bearer’s face;His shook shoulders slipped their load,But when they bent to look againThe drowning soul was sunk too deepFor human tenderness.

A man’s brains splattered on

A stretcher-bearer’s face;

His shook shoulders slipped their load,

But when they bent to look again

The drowning soul was sunk too deep

For human tenderness.

They left this dead with the older dead,Stretched at the cross roads.

They left this dead with the older dead,

Stretched at the cross roads.

Burnt black by strange decayTheir sinister faces lie,The lid over each eye;The grass and coloured clayMore motion have than they,Joined to the great sunk silences.

Burnt black by strange decay

Their sinister faces lie,

The lid over each eye;

The grass and coloured clay

More motion have than they,

Joined to the great sunk silences.

Here is one not long dead.His dark hearing caught our far wheels,And the choked soul stretched weak handsTo reach the living word the far wheels said;The blood-dazed intelligence beating for light,Crying through the suspense of the far torturing wheelsSwift for the end to breakOr the wheels to break,Cried as the tide of the world broke over his sight,“Will they come? Will they ever come?”Even as the mixed hoofs of the mules,The quivering-bellied mules,And the rushing wheels all mixedWith his tortured upturned sight.

Here is one not long dead.

His dark hearing caught our far wheels,

And the choked soul stretched weak hands

To reach the living word the far wheels said;

The blood-dazed intelligence beating for light,

Crying through the suspense of the far torturing wheels

Swift for the end to break

Or the wheels to break,

Cried as the tide of the world broke over his sight,

“Will they come? Will they ever come?”

Even as the mixed hoofs of the mules,

The quivering-bellied mules,

And the rushing wheels all mixed

With his tortured upturned sight.

So we crashed round the bend,We heard his weak scream,We heard his very last sound,And our wheels grazed his dead face.

So we crashed round the bend,

We heard his weak scream,

We heard his very last sound,

And our wheels grazed his dead face.

IN WAR

Fret the nonchalant noonWith your spleenOr your gay brow,For the motion of your spiritEver moves with these.When day shall be too quiet,Deaf to youAnd your dumb smile,Untuned air shall lap the stillnessIn the old space for your voice—The voice that once could mirrorRemote depthsOf moving being,Stirred by responsive voices near,Suddenly stilled for ever.No ghost darkens the placesDark to One;But my eyes dream,And my heart is heavy to thinkHow it was heavy once.In the old days when deathStalked the worldFor the flower of men,And the rose of beauty fadedAnd pined in the great gloom,One day we dug a grave:We were vexedWith the sun’s heat.We scanned the hooded dead:At noon we sat and talked.How death had kissed their eyesThree dread noons since,How human art wonThe dark soul to flickerTill it was lost again:And we whom chance kept whole—But haggard,Spent—were chargedTo make a place for them who knewNo pain in any place.The good priest came to pray;Our ears half heard,And half we thoughtOf alien things, irrelevant;And the heat and thirst were great.The good priest read: “I heard....”Dimly my brainHeld words and lost....Sudden my blood ran cold....God! God! It could not be.He read my brother’s name;I sank—I clutched the priest.They did not tell me it was heWas killed three days ago.What are the great sceptred doomsTo us, caughtIn the wild wave?We break ourselves on them,My brother, our hearts and years.

Fret the nonchalant noonWith your spleenOr your gay brow,For the motion of your spiritEver moves with these.

Fret the nonchalant noon

With your spleen

Or your gay brow,

For the motion of your spirit

Ever moves with these.

When day shall be too quiet,Deaf to youAnd your dumb smile,Untuned air shall lap the stillnessIn the old space for your voice—

When day shall be too quiet,

Deaf to you

And your dumb smile,

Untuned air shall lap the stillness

In the old space for your voice—

The voice that once could mirrorRemote depthsOf moving being,Stirred by responsive voices near,Suddenly stilled for ever.

The voice that once could mirror

Remote depths

Of moving being,

Stirred by responsive voices near,

Suddenly stilled for ever.

No ghost darkens the placesDark to One;But my eyes dream,And my heart is heavy to thinkHow it was heavy once.

No ghost darkens the places

Dark to One;

But my eyes dream,

And my heart is heavy to think

How it was heavy once.

In the old days when deathStalked the worldFor the flower of men,And the rose of beauty fadedAnd pined in the great gloom,

In the old days when death

Stalked the world

For the flower of men,

And the rose of beauty faded

And pined in the great gloom,

One day we dug a grave:We were vexedWith the sun’s heat.We scanned the hooded dead:At noon we sat and talked.

One day we dug a grave:

We were vexed

With the sun’s heat.

We scanned the hooded dead:

At noon we sat and talked.

How death had kissed their eyesThree dread noons since,How human art wonThe dark soul to flickerTill it was lost again:

How death had kissed their eyes

Three dread noons since,

How human art won

The dark soul to flicker

Till it was lost again:

And we whom chance kept whole—But haggard,Spent—were chargedTo make a place for them who knewNo pain in any place.

And we whom chance kept whole—

But haggard,

Spent—were charged

To make a place for them who knew

No pain in any place.

The good priest came to pray;Our ears half heard,And half we thoughtOf alien things, irrelevant;And the heat and thirst were great.

The good priest came to pray;

Our ears half heard,

And half we thought

Of alien things, irrelevant;

And the heat and thirst were great.

The good priest read: “I heard....”Dimly my brainHeld words and lost....Sudden my blood ran cold....God! God! It could not be.

The good priest read: “I heard....”

Dimly my brain

Held words and lost....

Sudden my blood ran cold....

God! God! It could not be.

He read my brother’s name;I sank—I clutched the priest.They did not tell me it was heWas killed three days ago.

He read my brother’s name;

I sank—

I clutched the priest.

They did not tell me it was he

Was killed three days ago.

What are the great sceptred doomsTo us, caughtIn the wild wave?We break ourselves on them,My brother, our hearts and years.

What are the great sceptred dooms

To us, caught

In the wild wave?

We break ourselves on them,

My brother, our hearts and years.

THE DEAD HEROES

Flame out, you glorious skies,Welcome our brave;Kiss their exultant eyes;Give what they gave.Flash, mailed seraphim,Your burning spears;New days to outflame their dimHeroic years.Thrills their baptismal treadThe bright proud air;The embattled plumes outspreadBurn upwards there.Flame out, flame out, O Song!Star ring to star;Strong as our hurt is strongOur children are.Their blood is England’s heart;By their dead handsIt is their noble partThat England stands.England—Time gave them thee;They gave back thisTo win EternityAnd claim God’s kiss.

Flame out, you glorious skies,Welcome our brave;Kiss their exultant eyes;Give what they gave.

Flame out, you glorious skies,

Welcome our brave;

Kiss their exultant eyes;

Give what they gave.

Flash, mailed seraphim,Your burning spears;New days to outflame their dimHeroic years.

Flash, mailed seraphim,

Your burning spears;

New days to outflame their dim

Heroic years.

Thrills their baptismal treadThe bright proud air;The embattled plumes outspreadBurn upwards there.

Thrills their baptismal tread

The bright proud air;

The embattled plumes outspread

Burn upwards there.

Flame out, flame out, O Song!Star ring to star;Strong as our hurt is strongOur children are.

Flame out, flame out, O Song!

Star ring to star;

Strong as our hurt is strong

Our children are.

Their blood is England’s heart;By their dead handsIt is their noble partThat England stands.

Their blood is England’s heart;

By their dead hands

It is their noble part

That England stands.

England—Time gave them thee;They gave back thisTo win EternityAnd claim God’s kiss.

England—Time gave them thee;

They gave back this

To win Eternity

And claim God’s kiss.

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