And he'd liked Dick . . and yet when Dick was hit,
He hadn't turned a hair. The meanest skunk
He should have thought would feel it when his mate Was blown to smithereens Dick, proud as punch, Grinning like sin, and holding up the plate But he had gone on munching his dry hunch, Unwinking, till he swallowed the last crumb. Perhaps 't was just because he dared not let His mind run upon Dick, who'd been his chum. He dared not now, though he could not forget.
Dick took his luck. And, life or death, 't was luck From first to last; and you'd just got to trust Your luck and grin. It wasn't so much pluck As knowing that you'd got to, when needs must, And better to die grinning.
Had fallen on the night. On either hand The guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow The quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned The starry sky. He'd never seen before
So many stars. Although, of course, he'd known That there were stars, somehow before the war He'd never realized them - so thick-sown, Millions and millions. Serving in the shop, Stars didn't count for much; and then at nights Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop, You didn't see much but the city lights. He'd never in his life seen so much sky As he'd seen this last fortnight. It was queer The things war taught you. He'd a mind to try To count the stars they shone so bright and clear.
And what was the next thing that she required? (Too bad of customers to come so late, At closing time!) Again within the shop He handled knots of tape and reels of thread, Politely talking weather, fit to drop. . .
When once again the whole sky overhead
Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shell And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily He stared about him, wondering. Then he fell Into deep dreamless slumber
Two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew He was awake, and it again was day An August morning, burning to clear blue. The frightened rabbit scuttled.
A sound of firing. . . . Up there, in the sky Big dragon-flies hung hovering. . . . Snowballs burst About them. . . . Flies and snowballs. With a cry He crouched to watch the airmen pass the first That he'd seen under fire. Lord, that was pluck Shells bursting all about them - and what nerve! They took their chance, and trusted to their luck. At such a dizzy height to dip and swerve, Dodging the shell-fire.
And tumbling like a pigeon, plump. .
It righted, and then turned; and after it The whole flock followed safe Yes, they were all there safe. Back to their lines in safety. Even if they were Germans.
-four, five, six, seven, He hoped they'd win They deserved,
To wish them luck. Think how that beggar swerved Just in the nick of time!
To win back to the lines, though, likely as not, He'd take the wrong turn: but he couldn't lie Forever in that hungry hole and rot,
He'd got to take his luck, to take his chance Of being sniped by foes or friends. He'd be With any luck in Germany or France Or Kingdom-come, next morning.
The blazing day burnt over him, shot and shell Whistling and whining ceaselessly. But light Faded at last, and as the darkness fell He rose, and crawled away into the night.
"I cannot quite remember. . . . There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench and three Whispered their dying messages to me. . . .
Back from the trenches, more dead than alive, Stone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken knee He hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly:
"I cannot quite remember. There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench - and three Whispered their dying messages to me. . . .
"Their friends are waiting, wondering how they thrive — Waiting a word in silence patiently..
But what they said, or who their friends may be
"I cannot quite remember. . . . There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench - and three Whispered their dying messages to me.
Out of the sparkling sea
I drew my tingling body clear, and lay On a low ledge the livelong summer day,
Basking, and watching lazily
White sails in Falmouth Bay.
Salt in the sun that drenched it through and through, Till every particle glowed clean and new
And slowly seemed to turn
To lucent amber in a world of blue.
And found that I was sprawling in the mud Among the dead men in the trench.
The Road is thronged with women: soldiers pass And halt, but never see them: yet they're here, A patient crowd along the sodden grass, Silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear. The Road goes crawling up a long hillside
All ruts and stones and sludge, and the emptied dregs Of battle thrown in heaps: here, where they died, Are stretched big-bellied horses with stiff legs; And dead men, bloody-fingered from the fight, Stare up at cavern'd darkness winking white. You in the bomb-scorched kilt, poor sprawling Jock, You tottered here and fell, and stumbled on, Half-dazed for want of sleep: no dream could mock Your reeling brain with comforts lost and gone. You did not feel her arms about your knees, Her blind caress, her lips upon your head: Too tired for thoughts of home and love and ease, The Road would serve you well enough for bed. - Siegfried Sassoon
At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun In the wild purple of the glowering sun,
Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one, Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.
The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,
1 By permission, from The Old Huntsman and Other Poems. Copyright by E. P. Dutton & Company.
2 By permission, from Counter-Attack. Copyright by E. P. Dutton & Company.
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