Poems of American Patriotism Part 23

You cannot march away! However far, Farther and faster still I shall have fled Before you; and that moment when you land, Voiceless, invisible, close at your hand My heart shall smile, hearing the steady tread Of your faith-keeping feet.

First at the trenches I shall be to greet; There's not a watch I shall not share with you; But more--but most--there where for you the red, Drenched, dreadful, splendid, sacrificial field lifts up Inflexible demand, I will be there!

My hands shall hold the cup.

My hands beneath your head Shall bear you--not the stretcher bearer's--through All anguish of the dying and the dead; With all your wounds I shall have ached and bled, Waked, thirsted, starved, been fevered, gasped for breath, Felt the death dew; And you shall live, because my heart has said To Death

That Death itself shall have no part in you!

YOU AND YOU

EDITH WHARTON

November, 1918

TO THE AMERICAN PRIVATE IN THE GREAT WAR

Every one of you won the war-- You and you and you-- Each one knowing what it was for, And what was his job to do.

Every one of you won the war, Obedient, unwearied, unknown, Dung in the trenches, drift on the sh.o.r.e, Dust to the world's end blown; Every one of you, steady and true, You and you and you-- Down in the pit or up in the blue, Whether you crawled or sailed or flew, Whether your closest comrade knew Or you bore the brunt alone--

All of you, all of you, name after name, Jones and Robinson, Smith and Brown, You from the piping prairie town, You from the Fundy fogs that came,

You from the city's roaring blocks, You from the bleak New England rocks With the shingled roof in the apple boughs, You from the brown adobe house-- You from the Rockies, you from the Coast, You from the burning frontier-post And you from the Klond.y.k.e's frozen flanks, You from the cedar-swamps, you from the pine, You from the cotton and you from the vine, You from the rice and the sugar-brakes, You from the Rivers and you from the Lakes, You from the Creeks and you from the Licks And you from the brown bayou-- You and you and you-- You from the pulpit, you from the mine, You from the factories, you from the banks, Closer and closer, ranks on ranks, Airplanes and cannon, and rifles and tanks, Smith and Robinson, Brown and Jones, Ruddy faces or bleaching bones, After the turmoil and blood and pain Swinging home to the folks again Or sleeping alone in the fine French rain-- Every one of you won the war.

Every one of you won the war-- You and you and you-- Pressing and pouring forth, more and more, Toiling and straining from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e To reach the flaming edge of the dark Where man in his millions went up like a spark, You, in your thousands and millions coming, All the sea ploughed with you, all the air humming, All the land loud with you, All our hearts proud with you, All our souls bowed with the awe of your coming!

Where's the Arch high enough, Lads, to receive you, Where's the eye dry enough, Dears, to perceive you, When at last and at last in your glory you come, Tramping home?

Every one of you won the war, You and you and you-- You that carry an unscathed head, You that halt with a broken tread, And oh, most of all, you Dead, you Dead!

Lift up the Gates for these that are last, That are last in the great Procession.

Let the living pour in, take possession, Flood back to the city, the ranch, the farm, The church and the college and mill, Back to the office, the store, the exchange, Back to the wife with the babe on her arm, Back to the mother that waits on the sill, And the supper that's hot on the range.

And now, when the last of them all are by, Be the Gates lifted up on high To let those Others in, Those Others, their brothers, that softly tread, That come so thick, yet take no ground, That are so many, yet make no sound, Our Dead, our Dead, our Dead!

O silent and secretly-moving throng, In your fifty thousand strong, Coming at dusk when the wreaths have dropt, And streets are empty, and music stopt, Silently coming to hearts that wait Dumb in the door and dumb at the gate, And hear your step and fly to your call-- Every one of you won the war, But you, you Dead, most of all!

WITH THE TIDE

EDITH WHARTON

[Sidenote: January 6, 1919]

_This was written on the day after Theodore Roosevelt's death._

Somewhere I read, in an old book whose name Is gone from me, I read that when the days Of a man are counted, and his business done, There comes up the sh.o.r.e at evening, with the tide, To the place where he sits, a boat-- And in the boat, from the place where he sits, he sees, Dim in the dusk, dim and yet so familiar, The faces of his friends long dead; and knows They come for him, brought in upon the tide, To take him where men go at set of day.

Then rising, with his hands in theirs, he goes Between them his last steps, that are the first Of the new life--and with the ebb they pa.s.s, Their shaken sail grown small upon the moon.

Often I thought of this, and pictured me How many a man who lives with throngs about him, Yet straining through the twilight for that boat Shall scarce make out one figure in the stern, And that so faint its features shall perplex him With doubtful memories--and his heart hang back.

But others, rising as they see the sail Increase upon the sunset, hasten down, Hands out and eyes elated; for they see Head over head, crowding from bow to stern, Repeopling their long loneliness with smiles, The faces of their friends; and such go forth Content upon the ebb tide, with safe hearts.

But never To worker summoned when his day was done Did mounting tide bring in such freight of friends As stole to you up the white wintry shingle That night while they that watched you thought you slept.

Softly they came, and beached the boat, and gathered In the still cove under the icy stars, Your last-born, and the dear loves of your heart, And all men that have loved right more than ease, And honor above honors; all who gave Free-handed of their best for other men, And thought their giving taking: they who knew Man's natural state is effort, up and up-- All these were there, so great a company Perchance you marvelled, wondering what great ship Had brought that throng unnumbered to the cove Where the boys used to beach their light canoe After old happy picnics--

But these, your friends and children, to whose hands, Committed, in the silent night you rose And took your last faint steps-- These led you down, O great American, Down to the Winter night and the white beach, And there you saw that the huge hull that waited Was not as are the boats of the other dead, Frail craft for a brief pa.s.sage; no, for this Was first of a long line of towering transports, Storm-worn and ocean-weary every one, The ships you launched, the ships you manned, the ships That now, returning from their sacred quest With the thrice-sacred burden of their dead, Lay waiting there to take you forth with them, Out with the ebb tide, on some farther quest.

AMERICA'S WELCOME HOME

HENRY VAN d.y.k.e

[Sidenote: November 11, 1918]

_When the fighting ceased there were two million American soldiers in France._

Oh, gallantly they fared forth in khaki and in blue, America's crusading host of warriors bold and true; They battled for the rights of man beside our brave Allies, And now they're coming home to us with glory in their eyes.

_Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me!

Our hearts are turning home again and there we long to be, In our beautiful big country beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars._

Our boys have seen the Old World as none have seen before.

They know the grisly horror of the German G.o.ds of war: The n.o.ble faith of Britain and the hero-heart of France, The soul of Belgium's fort.i.tude and Italy's romance.

They bore our country's great word across the rolling sea, "America swears brotherhood with all the just and free."

They wrote that word victorious on fields of mortal strife, And many a valiant lad was proud to seal it with his life.

Oh, welcome home in Heaven's peace, dear spirits of the dead!

And welcome home ye living sons America hath bred!

The lords of war are beaten down, your glorious task is done; You fought to make the whole world free, and the victory is won.

_Now it's home again, and home again, our hearts are turning west, Of all the lands beneath the sun America is best.

We're going home to our own folks, beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars._

THE UNKNOWN SOLIDER