Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/136

 136

F courage thrives on reeking slaughter,

And he who kills is lord

Of beauty and of loving laughter—

Gird on me a sword!

If death be dearest comrade proven,

If life be coward's mate,

If Nazareth of dreams be woven—

Give me fighter's fate!

If God be thrilled by a battle cry,

If He can bless the moaning fight,

If when the trampling charge goes by

God himself is the leading Knight;

If God laughs when the gun thunders,

If He yells when the bullet sings—

Then my stoic soul but wonders

How great God can do such things!

The white gulls wheeling over the plough,

The sun, the reddening trees—

We being enemies, I and thou,

There is no meaning to these.

There is no flight on the wings of Spring,

No scent in the summer rose;

The roundelays that the blackbirds sing—

There is no meaning in those!

If you must kill me—why the lark,

The hawthorn bud, and the corn?

Why do the stars bedew the dark?

Why is the blossom born?

If I must kill you—why the kiss

Which made you? There is no why!

If it be true we were born for this—

Pitiful Love, Good-bye!