Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/359

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An August morning, burning to clear blue.

The frightened rabbit scuttled. ..

Far away,

A sound of firing. . . Up there, in the sky

Big dragon-flies hung hovering. . . Snowballs burst

About them. . . Flies and snowballs. With a cry

He crouched to watch the airmen pass—the first

That he'd seen under fire. Lord, that was pluck—

Shells bursting all about them—and what nerve!

They took their chance, and trusted to their luck.

At such a dizzy height to dip and swerve,

Dodging the shell fire. ..

Hell! but one was hit,

And tumbling like a pigeon, plump. ..

Thank Heaven,

It righted, and then turned; and after it

The whole flock followed safe—four, five, six, seven,

Yes, they were all there safe. He hoped they'd win

Back to their lines in safety. They deserved,

Even if they were Germans. . . 'Twas no sin

To wish them luck. Think how that beggar swerved

Just in the nick of time!

He, too, must try

To win back to the lines, though, likely as not,

He'd take the wrong turn: but he couldn't lie

For ever in that hungry hole and rot,

He'd got to take his luck, to take his chance

Of being sniped by foes or friends. He'd be

With any luck, in Germany or France

Or Kingdom-come, next morning. ..

Drearily

The blazing day burnt over him, shot and shell

Whistling and whining ceaselessly. But light

Faded at last, and as the darkness fell

He rose and crawled away into the night. Wilfrid Wilson Gibson