A Treasury of War Poetry Part 33

Not long did we lie on the torn, red field of pain.

We fell, we lay, we slumbered, we took rest, With the wild nerves quiet at last, and the vexed brain Cleared of the winged nightmares, and the breast Freed of the heavy dreams of hearts afar.

We rose at last under the morning star.

We rose, and greeted our brothers, and welcomed our foes.

We rose; like the wheat when the wind is over, we rose.

With shouts we rose, with gasps and incredulous cries, With bursts of singing, and silence, and awestruck eyes, With broken laughter, half tears, we rose from the sod, With welling tears and with glad lips, whispering, "G.o.d."

Like babes, refreshed from sleep, like children, we rose, Br.i.m.m.i.n.g with deep content, from our dreamless repose.

And, "What do you call it?" asked one. "I thought I was dead."

"You are," cried another. "We're all of us dead and flat."

"I'm alive as a cricket. There's something wrong with your head."

They stretched their limbs and argued it out where they sat.

And over the wide field friend and foe Spoke of small things, remembering not old woe Of war and hunger, hatred and fierce words.

They sat and listened to the brooks and birds, And watched the starlight perish in pale flame, Wondering what G.o.d would look like when He came.

_Hermann Hagedorn_

TO A HERO

We may not know how fared your soul before Occasion came to try it by this test.

Perchance, it used on lofty wings to soar; Again, it may have dwelt in lowly nest.

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

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

_Oscar C.A. Child_

RUPERT BROOKE

(IN MEMORIAM)

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

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

_Moray Dalton_

THE PLAYERS

We challenged Death. He threw with weighted dice.

We laughed and paid the forfeit, glad to pay-- Being recompensed beyond our sacrifice With that nor Death nor Time can take away.

_Francis Bickley_

A SONG

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

Oh, red is the English rose, And the lilies of France are pale.

And the poppies lie in the level corn For the men who sleep and never return.

But wherever they lie an English rose So red, and a lily of France so pale, Will grow for a love that never and never can fail.

_Charles Alexander Richmond_

HARVEST MOON

Over the twilight field, Over the glimmering field And bleeding furrows, with their sodden yield Of sheaves that still did writhe, After the scythe; The teeming field, and darkly overstrewn With all the garnered fullness of that noon-- Two looked upon each other.

One was a Woman, men had called their mother: And one the Harvest Moon.

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

"But we were crazed....

We should laugh now together, I and you; We two.

You, for your ever dreaming it was worth A star's while to look on, and light the earth; And I, for ever telling to my mind Glory it was and gladness, to give birth To human kind.

I gave the breath,--and thought it not amiss, I gave the breath to men, For men to slay again; Lording it over anguish, all to give My life, that men might live, For this.

"You will be laughing now, remembering We called you once Dead World, and barren thing.

Yes, so we called you then, You, far more wise Than to give life to men."

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

_Josephine Preston Peabody_

HARVEST MOON: 1916