Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/214

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Oh, but the thrill and the splendour,

The sudden new knowledge—I can!

To fawn on no hireling defender,

But fight one's own fight as a man!

On woman's love won we set store;

To win one's own manhood is more.

Who hath a soul that will glow not,

Set face to face with the foe?

"Is life worth living?"—I know not:

Death is worth dying, I know.

Aye, I would gamble with Hell,

And—losing such stakes—say, 'Tis well! F. W. Bourdillon

TANDING on the fire-step,

Harking into the dark,

The black was filled with figures

His comrade could not mark.

Because it was softly snowing,

Because it was Christmastide,

He saw three figures passing,

Glittering in their pride.

One rode a cream-white camel,

One was a blackamoor,

One a bearded Persian;

They all rode up to the door.

They all rode up to the stable-door,

Dismounted, and bent the knee.

The door flamed open like a rose,

But more he could not see.

Standing on the fire-step

In softly falling snow,

It came to him—the carol—

Out of the long ago.