Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/358

 358

Dick took his luck. And, life or death, 'twas luck

From first to last; and you'd just got to trust

Your luck and grin. It wasn't so much pluck

As knowing that you'd got to, when needs must,

And better to die grinning. ..

Quiet now

Had fallen on the night. On either hand

The guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow

The quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned

The starry sky. He'd never seen before

So many stars. Although of course, he'd known

That there were stars, somehow before the war

He'd never realised them—so thick-sown,

Millions and millions. Serving in the shop,

Stars didn't count for much; and then at nights

Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop,

You didn't see much but the city lights.

He'd never in his life seen so much sky

As he'd seen this last fortnight. It was queer

The things war taught you. He'd a mind to try

To count the stars—they shone so bright and clear.

One, two, three, four. . . Ah, God, but he was tired. ..

Five, six, seven, eight. ..

Yes, it was number eight.

And what was the next thing that she required?

(Too bad of customers to come so late,

At closing time!) Again within the shop

He handled knots of tape and reels of thread,

Politely talking weather, fit to drop. ..

When once again the whole sky overhead

Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shell

And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily

He stared about him, wondering. Then he fell

Into deep dreamless slumber.

He could see

Two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew

He was awake, and it again was day—