Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/363

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I crawled on my hands and lay

Where a shallow crater yawned wide;

Then,—I swooned. . ..

When I woke, it was yet day.

Fierce was the pain of my wound,

But I saw it was death to stir,

For fifty paces away

Their trenches were.

In torture I prayed for the dark

And the stealthy step of my friend

Who, staunch to the very end,

Would creep to the danger zone

And offer his life as a mark

To save my own.

Night fell. I heard his tread,

Not stealthy, but firm and serene,

As if my comrade's head

Were lifted far from that scene

Of passion and pain and dread;

As if my comrade's heart

In carnage took no part;

As if my comrade's feet

Were set on some radiant street

Such as no darkness might haunt;

As if my comrade's eyes

No deluge of flame could surprise,

No death and destruction daunt,

No red-beaked bird dismay,

Nor sight of decay.

Then in the bursting shells' dim light

I saw he was clad in white.

For a moment I thought that I saw the smock

Of a shepherd in search of his flock.

Alert were the enemy, too,

And their bullets flew

Straight at a mark no bullet could fail;

For the seeker was tall and his robe was bright;

But he did not flee nor quail.