A Treasury of War Poetry Part 19

By the valor of twelve English martyrs, the h.e.l.l-Gate of Soissons is won!

_Herbert Kaufman_

THE VIRGIN OF ALBERT

(NOTRE DAME DE BREBIeRES)

Shyly expectant, gazing up at Her, They linger, Gaul and Briton, side by side: Death they know well, for daily have they died, Spending their boyhood ever bravelier; They wait: here is no priest or chorister, Birds skirt the stricken tower, terrified; Desolate, empty, is the Eastertide, Yet still they wait, watching the Babe and Her.

Broken, the Mother stoops: the brutish foe Hurled with dull hate his bolts, and down She swayed, Down, till She saw the toiling swarms below,-- Platoons, guns, transports, endlessly arrayed: "Women are woe for them! let Me be theirs, And comfort them, and hearken all their prayers!"

_George Herbert Clarke_

RETREAT

Broken, bewildered by the long retreat Across the stifling leagues of southern plain, Across the scorching leagues of trampled grain, Half-stunned, half-blinded, by the trudge of feet And dusty smother of the August heat, He dreamt of flowers in an English lane, Of hedgerow flowers glistening after rain-- All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet.

All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet-- The innocent names kept up a cool refrain-- All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet, Chiming and tinkling in his aching brain, Until he babbled like a child again-- "All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet."

_Wilfrid Wilson Gibson_

A LETTER FROM THE FRONT

I was out early to-day, spying about From the top of a haystack--such a lovely morning-- And when I mounted again to canter back I saw across a field in the broad sunlight A young Gunner Subaltern, stalking along With a rook-rifle held at the ready, and--would you believe it?-- A domestic cat, soberly marching beside him.

So I laughed, and felt quite well disposed to the youngster, And shouted out "the top of the morning" to him, And wished him "Good sport!"--and then I remembered My rank, and his, and what I ought to be doing: And I rode nearer, and added, "I can only suppose You have not seen the Commander-in-Chief's order Forbidding English officers to annoy their Allies By hunting and shooting."

But he stood and saluted And said earnestly, "I beg your pardon, Sir, I was only going out to shoot a sparrow To feed my cat with."

So there was the whole picture, The lovely early morning, the occasional sh.e.l.l Screeching and scattering past us, the empty landscape,-- Empty, except for the young Gunner saluting, And the cat, anxiously watching his every movement.

I may be wrong, and I may have told it badly, But it struck _me_ as being extremely ludicrous.

_Henry Newbolt_

RHEIMS CATHEDRAL--1914

A winged death has smitten dumb thy bells, And poured them molten from thy tragic towers: Now are the windows dust that were thy flower Patterned like frost, petalled like asphodels.

Gone are the angels and the archangels, The saints, the little lamb above thy door, The shepherd Christ! They are not, any more, Save in the soul where exiled beauty dwells.

But who has heard within thy vaulted gloom That old divine insistence of the sea, When music flows along the sculptured stone In tides of prayer, for him thy windows bloom Like faithful sunset, warm immortally!

Thy bells live on, and Heaven is in their tone!

_Grace Hazard Conkling_

I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH....

I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air-- I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath-- It may be I shall pa.s.s him still.

I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear.

G.o.d knows 't were better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear....

But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous.

_Alan Seeger_

THE SOLDIER

If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

_Rupert Brooke_

EXPECTANS EXPECTAVI

From morn to midnight, all day through, I laugh and play as others do, I sin and chatter, just the same As others with a different name.

And all year long upon the stage, I dance and tumble and do rage So vehemently, I scarcely see The inner and eternal me.

I have a temple I do not Visit, a heart I have forgot, A self that I have never met, A secret shrine--and yet, and yet