Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/207

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E looked back down the long lane of the years—

A fleeting, over-shoulder, furtive glance

Of eyes askance,

Eyes of a fugitive from doubts and fears

Clouding the vision. Yet for self-esteem

The world would offer scaffold and roof-beam,

House of two tiers,

A habitation meet for the elect.

For they were sober levels that he trod

With genial nod

For fellow-journey men; he never wrecked

Laughter and banter breaking from a lip

With chill and frost of reticence; the grip,

Free and unchecked,

Of friendliness had ever met the hand

Outstretched to his; and in no woman's heart

The sting and dart

Of shame for rifled innocence had banned

Him from the fold and fellowship of the clean.

Sane and serene,

He'd passed the milestones of the beaten track

Leaving remorse few memories to rack;

With ordered rhythm and unjostled pace

For forty years he'd run an even race.

And yet—and yet—he shunned the retrospect;

Though it was decked

With the accomplishments of a career,

No sign was there

Nor echo of the battle where strong men

Fight the fierce fight and feel the jarring steel,

Burst through the battlements, and rock and reel

In the red pen

Of blood and dust and rage and victory,

He'd lit no beacon on a storm-tossed sea,

Called no deep music from a great machine;

He'd never seen

The steel hull shearing sea-cliffs at his will,

Felt no long silence follow his "Be still!"