Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/287

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His shrapnel helmet set atilt,

His bombing waistcoat sagging low,

His rifle slung across his back:

Poised in the very act to throw.

And let some graven legend tell

Of those weird battles in the West

Wherein he put old skill to use,

And played old games with sterner zest.

Thus should he stand, reminding those

In less-believing days, perchance,

How Britain's fighting cricketers

Helped bomb the Germans out of France.

And other eyes than ours would see;

And other hearts than ours would thrill;

And others say, as we have said:

"A sportsman and a soldier still!" James Norman Hall

T was nearly twelve o'clock by the sergeant's watch;

The moon was three hours high.

The long grass growing on the parapet

Rustled as the wind went by.

Hoar-frost glistened on the bayonets

Of the rifles in the rifle-rack.

Suddenly I heard a faint, weird call

And an answering call come back.

We were standing in the corner by the Maxim gun,

In the shadow, and the sergeant said,

As he gripped my arm: "Did you hear it?"

I could only nod my head.

Looking down the length of the moonlit trench,

I saw the sleeping men

Huddled on the floor; but no one stirred.

Silently we listened again.