Picture-Show

The Dug-out

Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, And one arm bent across your sullen, cold, Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you, Deep-shadow'd from the candle's guttering gold; And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder; Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head....

You are too young to fall asleep for ever; And when you sleep you remind me of the dead.

ST. VENANT. July, 1918.

Here's the Canal: it's dusk; we cross the bridge. 'Lead on there, by platoons.' (The Line's a-glare With shellfire through the poplars; distant rattle Of rifles and machine-guns.) '_Fritz is there! 'Christ, ain't it lively, Sergeant? Is't a battle?_' More rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles. '_There's over-head artillery!_' some chap grumbles.

What's all this mob at the cross-roads? Where are the guides?... 'Lead on with number One.' And off they go. 'Three minute intervals.' (Poor blundering files, Sweating and blindly burdened; who's to know If death will catch them in those two dark miles?) More rain. 'Lead on, Head-quarters.' (That's the lot.)

'_Who's that? ... Oh, Sergeant-Major, don't get shot! 'And tell me, have we won this war or not!_'

'O put my leg down, doctor, do!' (He'd got A bullet in his ankle; and he'd been shot Horribly through the guts.) The surgeon seemed So kind and gentle, saying, above that crying, 'You must keep still, my lad.' But he was dying.

I Stood with the Dead

I stood with the Dead, so forsaken and still: When dawn was grey I stood with the Dead. And my slow heart said, 'You must kill, you must kill: 'Soldier, soldier, morning is red.'

On the shapes of the slain in their crumpled disgrace, I stared for a while through the thin cold rain.... 'O lad that I loved, there is rain on your face, 'And your eyes are blurred and sick like the plain.'

I stood with the Dead.... They were dead; they were dead; My heart and my head beat a march of dismay: And gusts of the wind came dulled by the guns. 'Fall in!' I shouted; 'Fall in for your pay!'

Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight, (Under Lord Derby's Scheme). I died in hell-- (They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight, And I was hobbling back; and then a shell Burst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fell Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light.

At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew, He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare; For, though low down upon the list, I'm there; '_In proud and glorious memory_' ... that's my due. Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire: I suffered anguish that he's never guessed. Once I came home on leave: and then went west... What greater glory could a man desire?

Atrocities

You told me, in your drunken-boasting mood, How once you butchered prisoners. That was good! I'm sure you felt no pity while they stood Patient and cowed and scared, as prisoners should.

How did you do them in? Come, don't be shy: You know I love to hear how Germans die, Downstairs in dug-outs. 'Kamerad!' They cry; Then squeal like stoats when bombs begin to fly.

And you? I know your record. You went sick When orders looked unwholesome: then, with trick And lie, you wangled home. And here you are, Still talking big and boozing in a bar.

In 'cleopatra'

O beauty doomed and perfect for an hour, Leaping along the verge of death and night, You show me dauntless Youth that went to fight Four long years past, discovering pride and power.

You die but in our dreams, who watch you fall Knowing that to-morrow you will dance again. But not to ebbing music were they slain Who sleep in ruined graves, beyond recall; Who, following phantom-glory, friend and foe, Into the darkness that was War must go; Blind; banished from desire. O mortal heart Be still; you have drained the cup; you have played your part.

Memory

When I was young my heart and head were light, And I was gay and feckless as a colt Out in the fields, with morning in the may, Wind on the grass, wings in the orchard bloom. O thrilling sweet, my joy, when life was free, And all the paths led on from hawthorn-time Across the carolling meadows into June.

But now my heart is heavy-laden. I sit Burning my dreams away beside the fire: For death has made me wise and bitter and strong; And I am rich in all that I have lost. O starshine on the fields of long-ago, Bring me the darkness and the nightingale; Dim wealds of vanished summer, peace of home, And silence; and the faces of my friends.

I

Fires in the dark you build; tall quivering flames In the huge midnight forest of the unknown. Your soul is full of cities with dead names, And blind-faced, earth-bound gods of bronze and stone Whose priests and kings and lust-begotten lords Watch the procession of their thundering hosts, Or guard relentless fanes with flickering swords And wizardry of ghosts.

Ii

In a strange house I woke; heard overhead Hastily-thudding feet and a muffled scream... (Is death like that?) ... I quaked uncomforted, Striving to frame to-morrow in a dream Of woods and sliding pools and cloudless day. (You know how bees come into a twilight room From dazzling afternoon, then sail away Out of the curtained gloom.)

Iii

You understand my thoughts; though, when you think, You're out beyond the boundaries of my brain. I'm but a bird at dawn that cries, 'chink, chink'-- A garden-bird that warbles in the rain. And you're the flying-man, the speck that steers A careful course; far down the verge of day, Half-way across the world. Above the years You soar ... Is death so bad? ... I wish you'd say.

Early Chronology

Slowly the daylight left our listening faces. Professor Brown, with level baritone, Discoursed into the dusk. Five thousand years He guided us through scientific spaces Of excavated History, till the lone Roads of research grew blurred, and in our ears Time was the rumoured tongues of vanished races, And Thought a chartless Age of Ice and Stone.

The story ended. Then the darkened air Flowered as he lit his pipe; an aureole glowed Enwreathed with smoke; the moment's match-light showed His rosy face, broad brow, and smooth grey hair, Backed by the crowded book-shelves. In his wake An archæologist began to make Assumptions about aqueducts; (he quoted Professor Sandstorm's book;) and soon they floated Through desiccated forests; mangled myths; And argued easily round megaliths. * Beyond the college garden something glinted: A copper moon climbed clear above the trees. Some Lydian coin? ... Professor Brown agrees That copper coins were in that culture minted. But, as her whitening way aloft she took, I thought she had a pre-dynastic look.

Your dextrous wit will haunt us long Wounding our grief with yesterday. Your laughter is a broken song; And death has found you, kind and gay.

We may forget those transient things That made your charm and our delight: But loyal love has deathless wings That rise and triumph out of night.

So, in the days to come, your name Shall be as music that ascends When honour turns a heart from shame... O heart of hearts! ... O friend of friends!

Miracles

I dreamt I saw a huge grey boat in silence steaming Down a canal; it drew the dizzy landscape after; The solemn world was sucked along with it--a streaming Land-slide of loveliness. O, but I rocked with laughter, Staring, and clinging to my tree-top. For a lake Of gleaming peace swept on behind. (I mustn't wake.)

And then great clouds gathered and burst in spumes of green That plunged into the water; and the sun came out On glittering islands thronged with orchards scarlet-bloomed; And rosy-plumed flamingoes flashed across the scene... O, but the beauty of their freedom made me shout... And when I woke I wondered where on earth I'd been.

The Goldsmith

'_This job's the best I've done._' He bent his head Over the golden vessel that he'd wrought. A bird was singing. But the craftsman's thought Is a forgotten language, lost and dead.

He sigh'd and stretch'd brown arms. His friend came in And stood beside him in the morning sun. The goldwork glitter'd.... '_That's the best I've done._ '_And now I've got a necklace to begin._'

This was at Gnossos, in the isle of Crete... A girl was selling flowers along the street.

Devotion to Duty

I was near the King that day. I saw him snatch And briskly scan the G.H.Q. dispatch. Thick-voiced, he read it out. (His face was grave.) 'This officer advanced with the first wave, 'And when our first objective had been gained, '(Though wounded twice), reorganized the line: 'The spirit of the troops was by his fine 'Example most effectively sustained.'

He gripped his beard; then closed his eyes and said, 'Bathsheba must be warned that he is dead. 'Send for her. I will be the first to tell 'This wife how her heroic husband fell.'

Ancient History

Adam, a brown old vulture in the rain, Shivered below his wind-whipped olive-trees; Huddling sharp chin on scarred and scraggy knees, He moaned and mumbled to his darkening brain; '_He was the grandest of them all--was Cain!_ 'A lion laired in the hills, that none could tire; 'Swift as a stag; a stallion of the plain, 'Hungry and fierce with deeds of huge desire.'

Grimly he thought of Abel, soft and fair-- A lover with disaster in his face, And scarlet blossom twisted in bright hair. 'Afraid to fight; was murder more disgrace? ... '_God always hated Cain._' ... He bowed his head-- The gaunt wild man whose lovely sons were dead.