Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/297

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Yea! by your works are ye justified—toil unrelievèd;

Manifold labours co-ordinate each to the sending achievèd;

Discipline not of the feet but the soul unremitting unfeignèd;

Tortures unholy by flame and by maiming, known, faced and disdainèd;

Courage that shuns

Only foolhardiness;—even by these are ye worthy your guns!

Wherefore—and unto ye only—power has been given;

Yea! beyond man, over men, over desolate cities and riven;

Yea! beyond space, over earth and the seas and the sky's high dominions;

Yea! beyond time, over Hell and the fiends and the Death-Angel's pinions!

Vigilant ones,

Loose them, and shatter, and spare not! We are the guns! Gilbert Frankau

HE kissed me when she said good-bye—

A child's kiss, neither bold nor shy.

We had met but a few short summer hours;

Talked of the sun, the wind, the flowers,

Sports and people; had rambled through

A casual catchy song or two,

And walked with arms linked to the car

By the light of a single misty star.

(It was war-time, you see, and the streets were dark

Lest the ravishing Hun should find a mark.)

And so we turned to say good-bye;

But somehow or other, I don't know why,