Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/356

 356

But living, while across the starry sky

Shrapnel and shell went screeching overhead—

Of all it meant that he, Tom Dodd, should lie

Among the Belgian turnips, while his bed. ..

If it were he, indeed, who'd climbed each night,

Fagged with the day's work, up the narrow stair,

And slipt his clothes off in the candle-light,

Too tired to fold them neatly in a chair

The way his mother'd taught him—too dog-tired

After the long day's serving in the shop,

Inquiring what each customer required,

Politely talking weather, fit to drop. ..

And now for fourteen days and nights, at least,

He hadn't had his clothes off, and had lain

In muddy trenches, napping like a beast

With one eye open, under sun and rain

And that unceasing hell-fire. ..

It was strange

How things turned out—the chances! You'd just got

To take your luck in life, you couldn't change

Your luck.

And so here he was lying shot

Who just six months ago had thought to spend

His days behind a counter. Still, perhaps. ..

And now, God only knew how he would end!

He'd like to know how many of the chaps

Had won back to the trench alive, when he

Had fallen wounded and been left for dead,

If any! . ..

This was different, certainly,

From selling knots of tape and reels of thread

And knots of tape and reels of thread and knots

Of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape,

Day in, day out, and answering "Have you got" 's

And "Do you keep" 's till there seemed no escape

From everlasting serving in a shop,

Inquiring what each customer required,

Politely talking weather, fit to drop,

With swollen ankles, tired. ..