Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/234

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And now he hurries at Another's beck—

Ancient, enormous, immemorial War—

And, past the trampled valley of the Meuse,

Finds a red service in the day's vast hall

Of thunders and in night's domain of death

Attends, unless he too be of the dead.

And I sit here beneath the harmless lights!

O simple soul War's hands laid hold upon

And led to devastations, and the shock

Of legions, and the rumble of huge guns,

And crash and lightning of the rended shells,

Above a region veined and pooled with blood!

You now have part with all intrepid youth

That took, in ages past, the battle-line,

And in a mighty Cause had faith and love.

You are the hero now, and I the sheep!

And quietly beneath the pleasant lamps

I sit, and wonder how you fare to-night.

It's midnight now in France. Perhaps you find

Uneasy slumber; or perhaps, entrenched,

You wait the night attack across the rain.

Perhaps, my friend, they've made your bed with spades!

And I sit moody here, remembering,

As careless men and women rise and go,

I never asked you if you had a wife. George Sterling

LD orchard crofts of Picardy,

In the high warm winds of May,

Tossed into blossomed billowings,

And spattered the roads with spray.

Over the earth the scudding cloud,

And the laverock whistling high,

Lifted the drooping heart of the lad

At one bound to the sky.

France! France! and the old romance

Came over him like a spell;