Georgian Poetry 1916-1917 Part 4

Robert, there's a war in France; Everywhere men bang and blunder, Sweat and swear and wors.h.i.+p Chance, Creep and blink through cannon thunder.

Rifles crack and bullets flick, Sing and hum like hornet-swarms.

Bones are smashed and buried quick.

Yet, through stunning battle storms, All the while I watch the spark Lit to guide me; for I know Dreams will triumph, though the dark Scowls above me where I go.

_You_ can hear me; _you_ can mingle Radiant folly with my jingle.

War's a joke for me and you While we know such dreams are true!

THE KISS

To these I turn, in these I trust; Brother Lead and Sister Steel.

To his blind power I make appeal; I guard her beauty clean from rust.

He spins and burns and loves the air, And splits a skull to win my praise; But up the n.o.bly marching days She glitters naked, cold and fair.

Sweet Sister, grant your soldier this; That in good fury he may feel The body where he sets his heel Quail from your downward darting kiss.

THE DRAGON AND THE UNDYING

All night the flares go up; the Dragon sings And beats upon the dark with furious wings; And, stung to rage by his own darting fires, Reaches with grappling coils from town to town; He l.u.s.ts to break the loveliness of spires, And hurls their martyred music toppling down.

Yet, though the slain are homeless as the breeze, Vocal are they, like storm-bewilder'd seas.

Their faces are the fair, unshrouded night, And planets are their eyes, their ageless dreams.

Tenderly stooping earthward from their height, They wander in the dusk with chanting streams; And they are dawn-lit trees, with arms up-flung, To hail the burning heavens they left unsung.

TO VICTORY

Return to greet me, colours that were my joy, Not in the woeful crimson of men slain, But s.h.i.+ning as a garden; come with the streaming Banners of dawn and sundown after rain.

I want to fill my gaze with blue and silver, Radiance through living roses, spires of green Rising in young-limbed copse and lovely wood, Where the hueless wind pa.s.ses and cries unseen.

I am not sad; only I long for l.u.s.tre,-- Tired of the greys and browns and the leafless ash.

I would have hours that move like a glitter of dancers Far from the angry guns that boom and flash.

Return, musical, gay with blossom and fleetness, Days when my sight shall be clear and my heart rejoice; Come from the sea with breadth of approaching brightness, When the blithe wind laughs on the hills with up-lifted voice.

'THEY'

The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back They will not be the same; for they'll have fought In a just cause: they lead the last attack On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought New right to breed an honourable race.

They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.'

'We're none of us the same!' the boys reply.

For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind; Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die; And Bert's gone syphilitic; you'll not find A chap who's served that hasn't found _some_ change.'

And the Bishop said: 'The ways of G.o.d are strange!'

'IN THE PINK'

So Davies wrote: 'This leaves me in the pink.'

Then scrawled his name: 'Your loving sweet-heart, Willie'

With crosses for a hug. He'd had a drink Of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly, For once his blood ran warm; he had pay to spend.

Winter was pa.s.sing; soon the year would mend.

He couldn't sleep that night. Stiff in the dark He groaned and thought of Sundays at the farm, When he'd go out as cheerful as a lark In his best suit to wander arm-in-arm With brown-eyed Gwen, and whisper in her ear The simple, silly things she liked to hear.

And then he thought: to-morrow night we trudge Up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten.

Five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge, And everything but wretchedness forgotten.

To-night he's in the pink; but soon he'll die.

And still the war goes on; _he_ don't know why.

HAUNTED

Evening was in the wood, louring with storm.

A time of drought had sucked the weedy pool And baked the channels; birds had done with song.

Thirst was a dream of fountains in the moon, Or willow-music blown across the water Leisurely sliding on by weir and mill.

Uneasy was the man who wandered, brooding, His face a little whiter than the dusk.

A drone of sultry wings flicker'd in his head.

The end of sunset burning thro' the boughs Died in a smear of red; exhausted hours c.u.mber'd, and ugly sorrows hemmed him in.

He thought: 'Somewhere there's thunder,' as he strove To shake off dread; he dared not look behind him, But stood, the sweat of horror on his face.

He blundered down a path, trampling on thistles, In sudden race to leave the ghostly trees.

And: 'Soon I'll be in open fields,' he thought, And half remembered starlight on the meadows, Scent of mown gra.s.s and voices of tired men, Fading along the field-paths; home and sleep And cool-swept upland s.p.a.ces, whispering leaves, And far off the long churring night-jar's note.

But something in the wood, trying to daunt him, Led him confused in circles through the brake.

He was forgetting his old wretched folly, And freedom was his need; his throat was choking; Barbed brambles gripped and clawed him round his legs, And he floundered over snags and hidden stumps.

Mumbling: 'I will get out! I must get out!'

b.u.t.ting and thrusting up the baffling gloom, Pausing to listen in a s.p.a.ce 'twixt thorns, He peers around with boding, frantic eyes.

An evil creature in the twilight looping Flapped blindly in his face. Beating it off, He screeched in terror, and straightway something clambered Heavily from an oak, and dropped, bent double, To shamble at him zigzag, squat and b.e.s.t.i.a.l.