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Title : Over the Brazier

Author : Robert Graves

Release date : October 18, 2014 [eBook #47144]

Language : English

Credits : Produced by MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet
Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVER THE BRAZIER *** 

  

   
    
     [1]
    
   
  

  

   OVER THE BRAZIER
  

  

   BY ROBERT GRAVES
  

  

   LONDON — THE POETRY
   

   BOOKSHOP, 35 DEVONSHIRE
   

   ST., THEOBALDS RD. W.C.1
  

  

  

   
    
     [2]
    
   
  

  

   
    Poetry by the Same Author
   
  

  

   FAIRIES AND FUSILIERS
   

   (William Heinemann 1917)
  

  

   COUNTRY SENTIMENT
   

   (Martin Secker: 1920)
  

  

   

    First Printed 1916
    

    Second Impression 1917
    

    Reprinted 1920
   

  

  

  

   
    
     [3]
    
   
  

  

   FOREWORD TO NEW EDITION
  

  

   When these poems, written between
the ages of fourteen and twenty,
first appeared, I was serving in
France and had no leisure for
getting the final proofs altogether as
I wanted them. The same year, but
too late, I decided on several
alterations in the text, including the
suppression of two small poems
inexcusable even as early work.
These amendations appear in this
new edition, but I have left the bulk
of the book as it stood.
  

  

   
    Robert Graves.
   
   

  

  

   Harlech,
   

   North Wales.
  

  

  

   
    
     [4]
    
   
  

  

   THE POET IN THE NURSERY
  

  

   

    

     

      The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling
     

     

      In a dim library, just behind the chair
     

     

      From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling
     

     

      A song about some Lovers at a Fair,
     

     

      Pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling
     

     

      That rhymes were beastly things and never there.
     

    

    

     

      And as I groped, the whole time I was thinking
     

     

      About the tragic poem I'd been writing—
     

     

      An old man's life of beer and whisky drinking,
     

     

      His years of kidnapping and wicked fighting;
     

     

      And how at last, into a fever sinking,
     

     

      Remorsefully he died, his bedclothes biting.
     

    

    

     

      But suddenly I saw the bright green cover
     

     

      Of a thin pretty book right down below;
     

     

      I snatched it up and turned the pages over,
     

     

      To find it full of poetry, and so
     

     

      Put it down my neck with quick hands like a lover
     

     

      And turned to watch if the old man saw it go.
     

    

    

     

      The book was full of funny muddling mazes
     

     

      Each rounded off into a lovely song,
     

     

      And most extraordinary and monstrous phrases
     

     

      Knotted with rhymes like a slave-driver's thong,
     

     

      And metre twisting like a chain of daisies
     

     

      With great big splendid words a sentence long.
     

    

    

     

      I took the book to bed with me and gloated,
     

     

      Learning the lines that seemed to sound most grand,
     

     

      So soon the pretty emerald green was coated
     

     

      With jam and greasy marks from my hot hand,
     

     

      While round the nursery for long months there floated
     

     

      Wonderful words no one could understand.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [5]
    
   
  

  

   PART I.—Poems Mostly Written
at Charterhouse—1910-1914
  

  

  

   
    
     [6]
    
   
  

  

   STAR-TALK
  

  

   

    

     

      "Are you awake, Gemelli,
     

     

      This frosty night?"
     

     

      "We'll be awake till reveillé,
     

     

      Which is Sunrise," say the Gemelli,
     

     

      "It's no good trying to go to sleep:
     

     

      If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep,
     

     

      But sleep is gone to to-night,
     

     

      But sleep is gone for to-night."
     

    

    

     

      "Are you cold too, poor Pleiads,
     

     

      This frosty night?"
     

     

      "Yes, and so are the Hyads:
     

     

      See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads,
     

     

      "All six in a ring: it keeps us warm:
     

     

      We huddle together like birds in a storm:
     

     

      It's bitter weather to-night,
     

     

      It's bitter weather to-night."
     

    

    

     

      "What do you hunt, Orion,
     

     

      This starry night?"
     

     

      "The Ram, the Bull and the Lion,
     

     

      And the Great Bear," says Orion,
     

     

      "With my starry quiver and beautiful belt
     

     

      I am trying to find a good thick pelt
     

     

      To warm my shoulders to-night,
     

     

      To warm my shoulders to-night."
     

     
      
       [7]
      
     
    

    

     

      "Did you hear that, Great She-bear,
     

     

      This frosty night?"
     

     

      "Yes, he's talking of stripping
      
       me
      
      bare
     

     

      Of my own big fur," says the She-bear,
     

     

      "I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow:
     

     

      The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow,
     

     

      And the frost so cruel to-night!
     

     

      And the frost so cruel to-night!"
     

    

    

     

      "How is your trade, Aquarius,
     

     

      This frosty night?"
     

     

      "Complaints is many and various
     

     

      And my feet are cold," says Aquarius,
     

     

      "There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales,
     

     

      And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails,
     

     

      And the pump has frozen to-night,
     

     

      And the pump has frozen to-night."
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [8]
    
   
  

  

   THE DYING KNIGHT AND THE FAUNS
  

  

   

    

     

      Through the dreams of yesternight
     

     

      My blood brother great in fight
     

     

      I saw lying, slowly dying
     

     

      Where the weary woods were sighing
     

     

      With the rustle of the birches,
     

     

      With the quiver of the larches....
     

     

      Woodland fauns with hairy haunches
     

     

      Grin in wonder through the branches
     

     

      Woodland fauns that know no fear.
     

     

      Wondering, they wander near
     

     

      Munching mushrooms red as coral,
     

     

      Bunches, too, of rue and sorrel;
     

     

      Wonder at his radiant fairness,
     

     

      At his dinted, shattered harness,
     

     

      With uncouth and bestial sounds,
     

     

      Knowing nought of war or wounds:
     

     

      But the crimson life-blood oozes
     

     

      And make roses of the daisies,
     

     

      Persian carpets of the mosses—
     

     

      Softly now his spirit passes
     

     

      As the bee forsakes the lily,
     

     

      As the berry leaves the holly;
     

     

      But the fauns still think him living,
     

     

      And with bay leaves they are weaving
     

     

      Crowns to deck him. Well they may!
     

     

      He was worthy of the Bay.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [9]
    
   
  

  

   WILLAREE
  

  

   

    

     

      On the rough mountain wind
     

     

      That blows so free
     

     

      Rides a little storm-sprite
     

     

      Whose name is Willaree.
     

    

    

     

      The fleecy cloudlets are not his,
     

     

      No shepherd is he,
     

     

      For he drives the shaggy thunderclouds
     

     

      Over land and sea.
     

    

    

     

      His home is on the mountain-top
     

     

      Where I love to be,
     

     

      Amid grey rocks and brambles
     

     

      And the red rowan-tree.
     

    

    

     

      He whistles down the chimney,
     

     

      He whistles to me,
     

     

      And I send greeting back to him
     

     

      Whistling cheerily.
     

    

    

     

      The great elms are battling,
     

     

      Waves are on the sea,
     

     

      Loud roars the mountain-wind—
     

     

      God rest you, Willaree!
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [10]
    
   
  

  

   THE FACE OF THE HEAVENS
  

  

   

    

     

      Little winds in a hurry,
     

     

      Great winds over the sky,
     

     

      Clouds sleek or furry,
     

     

      Storms that rage and die,
     

    

    

     

      The whole cycle of weather
     

     

      From calm to hurricane
     

     

      Of four gales wroth together,
     

     

      Thunder, lightning, rain,
     

    

    

     

      The burning sun, snowing,
     

     

      Hailstones pattering down,
     

     

      Blue skies and red skies showing,
     

     

      Skies with a black frown,
     

    

    

     

      By these signs and wonders
     

     

      You may tell God's mood:
     

     

      He shines, rains, thunders,
     

     

      But all His works are good.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [11]
    
   
  

  

   JOLLY YELLOW MOON
  

  

   

    

     

      Oh, now has faded from the West
     

     

      A sunset red as wine,
     

     

      And beast and bird are hushed to rest
     

     

      When the jolly yellow moon doth shine.
     

    

    

     

      Come comrades, roam we round the mead
     

     

      Where couch the sleeping kine;
     

     

      The breath of night blows soft indeed,
     

     

      And the jolly yellow moon doth shine.
     

    

    

     

      And step we slowly, friend with friend,
     

     

      Let arm with arm entwine.
     

     

      And voice with voice together blend,
     

     

      For the jolly yellow moon doth shine.
     

    

    

     

      Whether we loudly sing or soft,
     

     

      The tune goes wondrous fine;
     

     

      Our chorus sure will float aloft
     

     

      Where the jolly yellow moon doth shine.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [12]
    
   
  

  

   YOUTH AND FOLLY
  

  

   

    ("
    
     Life is a very awful thing! You
young fellows are too busy being jolly
to realize the folly of your lives.
    
    "
   

   

    —
    
     A Charterhouse Sermon
    
    )
    

   

  

  

   

    

     

      In Chapel often when I bawl
     

     

      The hymns, to show I'm musical,
     

     

      With bright eye and cheery voice
     

     

      Bidding Christian folk rejoice,
     

     

      Shame be it said, I've not a thought
     

     

      Of the One Being whom I ought
     

     

      To worship: with unwitting roar
     

     

      Other godheads I adore.
     

     

      I celebrate the Gods of Mirth
     

     

      And Love and Youth and Springing Earth,
     

     

      Bacchus, beautiful, divine,
     

     

      Gulping down his heady wine,
     

     

      Dear Pan piping in his hollow,
     

     

      Fiery-headed King Apollo
     

     

      And rugged Atlas all aloof
     

     

      Holding up the purple roof.
     

     

      I have often felt and sung,
     

     

      "It's a good thing to be young:
     

     

      Though the preacher says it's folly,
     

     

      Is it foolish to be jolly?"
     

     

      I have often prayed in fear,
     

     

      "Let me never grow austere;
     

     

      Let me never think, I pray,
     

     

      Too much about Judgment Day;
     

     

      Never, never feel in Spring,
     

     

      'Life's a very awful thing!'"
     

     

      Then I realize and start
     

     

      And curse my arrogant young heart,
     

     

      Bind it over to confess
     

     

      Its horrible ungodliness,
     

     

      Set myself penances, and sigh
     

     

      That I was born in sin, and try
     

     

      To find the whole world vanity.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [13]
    
   
  

  

   GHOST MUSIC
  

  

   

    

     

      Gloomy and bare the organ-loft,
     

     

      Bent-backed and blind the organist.
     

     

      From rafters looming shadowy,
     

     

      From the pipes' tuneful company,
     

     

      Drifted together drowsily,
     

     

      Innumerable, formless, dim,
     

     

      The ghosts of long-dead melodies,
     

     

      Of anthems, stately, thunderous,
     

     

      Of Kyries shrill and tremulous:
     

     

      In melancholy drowsy-sweet
     

     

      They huddled there in harmony,
     

     

      Like bats at noontide rafter-hung.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [14]
    
   
  

  

   FREE VERSE
  

  

   

    

     

      I now delight,
     

     

      In spite
     

     

      Of the might
     

     

      And the right
     

     

      Of classic tradition,
     

     

      In writing
     

     

      And reciting
     

     

      Straight ahead,
     

     

      Without let or omission,
     

     

      Just any little rhyme
     

     

      In any little time
     

     

      That runs in my head:
     

     

      Because, I've said,
     

     

      My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed
     

     

      Like Prussian soldiers on parade
     

     

      That march,
     

     

      Stiff as starch,
     

     

      Foot to foot,
     

     

      Boot to boot,
     

     

      Blade to blade,
     

     

      Button to button,
     

     

      Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton.
     

     

      No! No!
     

     

      My rhymes must go
     

     

      Turn 'ee, twist 'ee,
     

     

      Twinkling, frosty,
     

     

      Will-o'-the-wisp-like, misty,
     

     

      Rhymes I will make
     

     

      Like Keats and Blake
     

     

      And Christina Rossetti,
     

     

      With run and ripple and shake.
     

     

      How petty
     

     

      To take
     

     

      A merry little rhyme
     

     

      In a jolly little time
     

     

      And poke it,
     

     

      And choke it,
     

     

      Change it, arrange it,
     

     
      
       [15]
      
     
     

      Straight-lace it, deface it,
     

     

      Pleat it with pleats,
     

     

      Sheet it with sheets
     

     

      Of empty conceits,
     

     

      And chop and chew,
     

     

      And hack and hew,
     

     

      And weld it into a uniform stanza,
     

     

      And evolve a neat,
     

     

      Complacent, complete,
     

     

      Academic extravaganza!
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [16]
    
   
  

  

   IN THE WILDERNESS
  

  

   

    

     

      Christ of his gentleness
     

     

      Thirsting and hungering
     

     

      Walked in the wilderness;
     

     

      Soft words of grace He spoke
     

     

      Unto lost desert-folk
     

     

      That listened wondering.
     

     

      He heard the bitterns call
     

     

      From ruined palace-wall,
     

     

      Answered them brotherly.
     

     

      He held communion
     

     

      With the she-pelican
     

     

      Of lonely piety.
     

     

      Basilisk, cockatrice,
     

     

      Flocked to His homilies,
     

     

      With mail of dread device,
     

     

      With monstrous barbéd stings,
     

     

      With eager dragon-eyes;
     

     

      Great rats on leather wings
     

     

      And poor blind broken things,
     

     

      Foul in their miseries.
     

     

      And ever with Him went,
     

     

      Of all His wanderings
     

     

      Comrade, with ragged coat,
     

     

      Gaunt ribs—poor innocent—
     

     

      Bleeding foot, burning throat,
     

     

      The guileless old scape-goat;
     

     

      For forty nights and days
     

     

      Followed in Jesus' ways,
     

     

      Sure guard behind Him kept,
     

     

      Tears like a lover wept.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [17]
    
   
  

  

   OH, AND OH!
  

  

   

    

     

      Oh, and oh!
     

     

      The world's a muddle,
     

     

      The clouds are untidy,
     

     

      Moon lopsidey,
     

     

      Shining in a puddle.
     

     

      Down dirty streets in stench and smoke
     

     

      The pale townsfolk
     

     

      Crawl and kiss and cuddle,
     

     

      In doorways hug and huddle;
     

     

      Loutish he
     

     

      And sluttish she
     

     

      In loathsome love together press
     

     

      And unbelievable ugliness.
     

     

      These spiders spin a loathly woof!
     

     

      I walk aloof,
     

     

      Head burning and heart snarling,
     

     

      Tread feverish quick;
     

     

      My love is sick;
     

     

      Far away lives my darling.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [18]
    
   
  

  

   CHERRY-TIME
  

  

   

    

     

      Cherries of the night are riper
     

     

      Than the cherries pluckt at noon:
     

     

      Gather to your fairy piper
     

     

      When he pipes his magic tune:
     

     

      Merry, merry,
     

     

      Take a cherry,
     

     

      Mine are sounder,
     

     

      Mine are rounder,
     

     

      Mine are sweeter
     

     

      For the eater
     

     

      Under the moon.
     

     

      And you'll be fairies soon.
     

    

    

     

      In the cherry pluckt at night,
     

     

      With the dew of summer swelling,
     

     

      There's a juice of pure delight,
     

     

      Cool, dark, sweet, divinely smelling.
     

     

      Merry, merry,
     

     

      Take a cherry,
     

     

      Mine are sounder,
     

     

      Mine are rounder,
     

     

      Mine are sweeter
     

     

      For the eater
     

     

      In the moonlight.
     

     

      And you'll be fairies quite.
     

    

    

     

      When I sound the fairy call,
     

     

      Gather here in silent meeting,
     

     

      Chin to knee on the orchard wall,
     

     

      Cooled with dew and cherries eating.
     

     

      Merry, merry,
     

     

      Take a cherry,
     

     

      Mine are sounder,
     

     

      Mine are rounder,
     

     

      Mine are sweeter
     

     

      For the eater
     

     

      When the dews fall.
     

     

      And you'll be fairies all.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [19]
    
   
  

  

   PART II.—Poems Written
Before La Bassée—1915
  

  

  

   
    
     [20]
    
    

    
     [21]
    
   
  

  

   THE SHADOW OF DEATH
  

  

   

    

     

      Here's an end to my art!
     

     

      I must die and I know it,
     

     

      With battle murder at my heart—
     

     

      Sad death for a poet!
     

    

    

     

      Oh my songs never sung,
     

     

      And my plays to darkness blown!
     

     

      I am still so young, so young,
     

     

      And life was my own.
     

    

    

     

      Some bad fairy stole
     

     

      The baby I nursed:
     

     

      Was this my pretty little soul,
     

     

      This changeling accursed?
     

    

    

     

      To fight and kill is wrong—
     

     

      To stay at home wronger:
     

     

      Oh soul, little play and song,
     

     

      I may father no longer!
     

    

    

     

      Here's an end to my art!
     

     

      I must die and I know it,
     

     

      With battle murder at my heart—
     

     

      Sad death for a poet!
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [22]
    
   
  

  

   THE MORNING BEFORE THE BATTLE
  

  

   

    

     

      To-day, the fight: my end is very soon,
     

     

      And sealed the warrant limiting my hours:
     

     

      I knew it walking yesterday at noon
     

     

      Down a deserted garden full of flowers.
     

     

      ... Carelessly sang, pinned roses on my breast,
     

     

      Reached for a cherry-bunch—and then, then, Death
     

     

      Blew through the garden from the North and East
     

     

      And blighted every beauty with chill breath.
     

    

    

     

      I looked, and ah, my wraith before me stood,
     

     

      His head all battered in by violent blows:
     

     

      The fruit between my lips to clotted blood
     

     

      Was transubstantiate, and the pale rose
     

     

      Smelt sickly, till it seemed through a swift tear-flood
     

     

      That dead men blossomed in the garden-close.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [23]
    
   
  

  

   LIMBO
  

  

   

    

     

      After a week spent under raining skies,
     

     

      In horror, mud and sleeplessness, a week
     

     

      Of bursting shells, of blood and hideous cries
     

     

      And the ever-watchful sniper: where the reek
     

     

      Of death offends the living ... but poor dead
     

     

      Can't sleep, must lie awake with the horrid sound
     

     

      That roars and whirs and rattles overhead
     

     

      All day, all night, and jars and tears the ground;
     

     

      When rats run, big as kittens: to and fro
     

     

      They dart, and scuffle with their horrid fare,
     

     

      And then one night relief comes, and we go
     

     

      Miles back into the sunny cornland where
     

     

      Babies like tickling, and where tall white horses
     

     

      Draw the plough leisurely in quiet courses.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [24]
    
   
  

  

   THE TRENCHES
   

   
    (
    
     Heard in the Ranks
    
    )
   
  

  

   

    

     

      Scratches in the dirt?
     

     

      No, that sounds much too nice.
     

     

      Oh, far too nice.
     

     

      Seams, rather, of a Greyback Shirt,
     

     

      And we're the little lice
     

     

      Wriggling about in them a week or two,
     

     

      Till one day, suddenly, from the blue
     

     

      Something bloody and big will come
     

     

      Like—watch this fingernail and thumb!—
     

     

      Squash! and he needs no twice.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [25]
    
   
  

  

   (
   
    Nursery Memories
   
   )
   

   I.—THE FIRST FUNERAL
  

  

   

    (
    
     The first corpse I saw was on the
German wires, and couldn't be buried
    
    )
   

  

  

   

    

     

      The whole field was so smelly;
     

     

      We smelt the poor dog first:
     

     

      His horrid swollen belly
     

     

      Looked just like going burst.
     

    

    

     

      His fur was most untidy;
     

     

      He hadn't any eyes.
     

     

      It happened on Good Friday
     

     

      And there was lots of flies.
     

    

    

     

      And then I felt the coldest
     

     

      I'd ever felt, and sick,
     

     

      But Rose, 'cause she's the oldest,
     

     

      Dared poke him with her stick.
     

    

    

     

      He felt quite soft and horrid:
     

     

      The flies buzzed round his head
     

     

      And settled on his forehead:
     

     

      Rose whispered: "That dog's dead.
     

    

    

     

      "You bury all dead people,
     

     

      When they're quite really dead,
     

     

      Round churches with a steeple:
     

     

      Let's bury this," Rose said.
     

    

    

     

      "And let's put mint all round it
     

     

      To hide the nasty smell."
     

     

      I went to look and found it—
     

     

      Lots, growing near the well.
     

    

    

     

      We poked him through the clover
     

     

      Into a hole, and then
     

     

      We threw brown earth right over
     

     

      And said: "Poor dog, Amen!"
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [26]
    
   
  

  

   (
   
    Nursery Memories
   
   )
   

   II.—THE ADVENTURE
  

  

   

    (
    
     Suggested by the claim of a machine-gun team to have
annihilated an enemy wire party: no bodies were found
however
    
    )
   

  

  

   

    

     

      To-day I killed a tiger near my shack
     

     

      Among the trees: at least, it must have been,
     

     

      Because his hide was yellow, striped with black,
     

     

      And his eyes were green.
     

    

    

     

      I crept up close and slung a pointed stone
     

     

      With all my might: I must have hit his head,
     

     

      For there he died without a twitch or groan,
     

     

      And he lay there dead.
     

    

    

     

      I expect that he'd escaped from a Wild Beast Show
     

     

      By pulling down his cage with an angry tear;
     

     

      He'd killed and wounded all the people—so
     

     

      He was hiding there.
     

    

    

     

      I brought my brother up as quick's I could
     

     

      But there was nothing left when he did come:
     

     

      The tiger's mate was watching in the wood
     

     

      And she'd dragged him home.
     

    

    

     

      But, anyhow, I killed him by the shack,
     

     

      'Cause—listen!—when we hunted in the wood
     

     

      My brother found my pointed stone all black
     

     

      With the clotted blood.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [27]
    
   
  

  

   (
   
    Nursery Memories
   
   )
   

   III.—I HATE THE MOON
  

  

   (
   
    After a moonlight patrol near the Brickstacks
   
   )
  

  

   

    

     

      I hate the Moon, though it makes most people glad,
     

     

      And they giggle and talk of silvery beams—you know!
     

     

      But
      
       she
      
      says the look of the Moon drives people mad,
     

     

      And that's the thing that always frightens me so.
     

    

    

     

      I hate it worst when it's cruel and round and bright,
     

     

      And you can't make out the marks on its stupid face,
     

     

      Except when you shut your eyelashes, and all night
     

     

      The sky looks green, and the world's a horrible place.
     

    

    

     

      I like the stars, and especially the Big Bear
     

     

      And the W star, and one like a diamond ring,
     

     

      But I
      
       hate
      
      the Moon and its horrible stony stare,
     

     

      And I know one day it'll do me some dreadful thing.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [28]
    
   
  

  

   BIG WORDS
  

  

   

    

     

      "I've whined of coming death, but now, no more!
     

     

      It's weak and most ungracious. For, say I,
     

     

      Though still a boy if years are counted, why!
     

     

      I've lived those years from roof to cellar-floor,
     

     

      And feel, like grey-beards touching their fourscore,
     

     

      Ready, so soon as the need comes, to die:
     

     

      And I'm satisfied.
     

     

      For winning confidence in those quiet days
     

     

      Of peace, poised sickly on the precipice side
     

     

      Of Lliwedd crag by Snowdon, and in war
     

     

      Finding it firmlier with me than before;
     

     

      Winning a faith in the wisdom of God's ways
     

     

      That once I lost, finding it justified
     

     

      Even in this chaos; winning love that stays
     

     

      And warms the heart like wine at Easter-tide;
     

     

      Having earlier tried
     

     

      False loves in plenty; oh! my cup of praise
     

     

      Brims over, and I know I'll feel small sorrow,
     

     

      Confess no sins and make no weak delays
     

     

      If death ends all and I must die to-morrow."
     

    

    

     

      But on the firestep, waiting to attack,
     

     

      He cursed, prayed, sweated, wished the proud words back.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [29]
    
   
  

  

   THE DEAD FOX HUNTER
  

  

   

    

     

      We found the little captain at the head;
     

     

      His men lay well aligned.
     

     

      We touched his hand—stone-cold—and he was dead,
     

     

      And they, all dead behind,
     

     

      Had never reached their goal, but they died well;
     

     

      They charged in line, and in the same line fell.
     

    

    

     

      The well-known rosy colours of his face
     

     

      Were almost lost in grey.
     

     

      We saw that, dying and in hopeless case,
     

     

      For others' sake that day
     

     

      He'd smothered all rebellious groans: in death
     

     

      His fingers were tight clenched between his teeth.
     

    

    

     

      For those who live uprightly and die true
     

     

      Heaven has no bars or locks,
     

     

      And serves all taste.... Or what's for him to do
     

     

      Up there, but hunt the fox?
     

     

      Angelic choirs? No, Justice must provide
     

     

      For one who rode straight and at hunting died.
     

    

    

     

      So if Heaven had no Hunt before he came,
     

     

      Why, it must find one now:
     

     

      If any shirk and doubt they know the game,
     

     

      There's one to teach them how:
     

     

      And the whole host of Seraphim complete
     

     

      Must jog in scarlet to his opening Meet.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [30]
    
   
  

  

   IT'S A QUEER TIME
  

  

   

    

     

      It's hard to know if you're alive or dead
     

     

      When steel and fire go roaring through your head.
     

    

    

     

      One moment you'll be crouching at your gun
     

     

      Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun:
     

     

      The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast
     

     

      No time to think—leave all—and off you go ...
     

     

      To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow,
     

     

      To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime—
     

     

      Breathe no goodbye, but ho, for the Red West!
     

     

      It's a queer time.
     

    

    

     

      You're charging madly at them yelling "Fag!"
     

     

      When somehow something gives and your feet drag.
     

     

      You fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain
     

     

      And find ... you're digging tunnels through the hay
     

     

      In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day.
     

     

      Oh springy hay, and lovely beams to climb!
     

     

      You're back in the old sailor suit again.
     

     

      It's a queer time.
     

    

    

     

      Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out—
     

     

      A great roar—the trench shakes and falls about—
     

     

      You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then ... hullo!
     

     

      Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench,
     

     

      Hanky to nose—that lyddite makes a stench—
     

     

      Getting her pinafore all over grime.
     

     

      Funny! because she died ten years ago!
     

     

      It's a queer time.
     

    

    

     

      The trouble is, things happen much too quick;
     

     

      Up jump the Bosches, rifles thump and click,
     

     

      You stagger, and the whole scene fades away:
     

     

      Even good Christians don't like passing straight
     

     

      From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate
     

     

      To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime
     

     

      Of golden harps ... and ... I'm not well to-day ...
     

     

      It's a queer time.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [31]
    
   
  

  

   1915
  

  

   

    

     

      I've watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow
     

     

      In the fields between La Bassée and Bethune;
     

     

      Primroses and the first warm day of Spring,
     

     

      Red poppy floods of June,
     

     

      August, and yellowing Autumn, so
     

     

      To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow,
     

     

      And you've been everything,
     

    

    

     

      Dear, you've been everything that I most lack
     

     

      In these soul-deadening trenches—pictures, books,
     

     

      Music, the quiet of an English wood,
     

     

      Beautiful comrade-looks,
     

     

      The narrow, bouldered mountain-track,
     

     

      The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black,
     

     

      And Peace, and all that's good.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   
    
     [32]
    
   
  

  

   OVER THE BRAZIER
  

  

   

    

     

      What life to lead and where to go
     

     

      After the War, after the War?
     

     

      We'd often talked this way before
     

     

      But I still see the brazier glow
     

     

      That April night, still feel the smoke
     

     

      And stifling pungency of burning coke.
     

    

    

     

      I'd thought: "A cottage in the hills,
     

     

      North Wales, a cottage full of books,
     

     

      Pictures and brass and cosy nooks
     

     

      And comfortable broad window-sills,
     

     

      Flowers in the garden, walls all white,
     

     

      I'd live there peacefully, and dream and write."
     

    

    

     

      But Willy said "No, Home's no good
     

     

      Old England's quite a hopeless place
     

     

      I've lost all feeling for my race:
     

     

      But France has given me heart and blood
     

     

      Enough to last me all my life
     

     

      I'm off to Canada with my wee wife.
     

    

    

     

      "Come with us, Mac, old thing," but Mac
     

     

      Drawled: "No, a Coral Isle for me,
     

     

      A warm green jewel in the South Sea.
     

     

      There's merit in a lumber shack
     

     

      And labour is a grand thing ... but
     

     

      Give me my hot beach and my cocoanut."
     

    

    

     

      So then we built and stocked for Willy
     

     

      A log-hut, and for Mac a calm
     

     

      Rockabye cradle on a palm—
     

     

      Idyllic dwellings—but this silly
     

     

      Mad War has now wrecked both, and what
     

     

      Better hopes has my little cottage got?
     

    

    

     

      July, 1915.
     

    

   

  

  

  

   

    Transcriber's Notes
   

   

    Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired.