Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/242

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From the ground where our dead men lie

A brown lark soars in song.

Through the tortured air

Rent by the shrapnel's flare,

Over the troubleless dead he carols his fill,

And I thank the gods that the birds are beautiful still.

Where the parapet is low

And level with the eye

Poppies and cornflowers glow

And the corn sways to and fro

In a pattern against the sky.

The gold stalks hide

Bodies of men who died

Charging at dawn through the dew to be killed or to kill,

I thank the gods that the flowers are beautiful still.

When night falls dark we creep

In silence to our dead.

We dig a few feet deep

And leave them there to sleep—

But blood at night is red,

Yea, even at night,

And a dead man's face is white.

And I dry my hands, that are also trained to kill,

And I look at the stars—for the stars are beautiful still. Leslie Coulson

leaping wind from England,

The skies without a stain,

Clean cut against the morning

Slim poplars after rain,

The foolish noise of sparrows

And starlings in a wood—

After the grime of battle

We know that these are good.