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ARDOURS AND ENDURANCES
ARDOURS AND
ENDURANCES
ALSO A FAUN'S HOLIDAY &
POEMS AND PHANTASIES BY
ROBERT NICHOLS
Author of "Invocation: War Poems and Others"
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
CONTENTS
BOOK I ARDOURS AND ENDURANCES The Summons: PAGE I. To—— 4 II. The Past 5 III. The Reckoning 6 Farewell To Place of Comfort 7 The Approach: I. In the Grass: Halt by Roadside 12 II. The Day's March 13 III. Nearer 15 Battle: I. Noon 18 II. Night Bombardment 19 III. Comrades: An Episode 22 IV. Behind the Lines: Night, France 27 V. At the Wars 28 VI. Out of Trenches: The Barn, Twilight 30 VII. Battery moving up to a New Position from Rest Camp: Dawn 32 VIII. Eve of Assault: Infantry going down to Trenches 35 IX. The Assault 37 X. The Last Morning 42 XI. Fulfilment 44 The Dead: I. The Burial in Flanders 46 II. Boy 48 III. Plaint of Friendship by Death Broken 51 IV. By the Wood 55 The Aftermath: I. At the Ebb 58 II. Alone 60 III. Thanksgiving 61 IV. Annihilated 62
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V. Shut of Night 63 VI. The Full Heart 65 VII. Sonnet: Our Dead 66 VIII. Deliverance 67 BOOK II A FAUN'S HOLIDAY 69 BOOK III POEMS AND PHANTASIES A Triptych: First Panel: The Hill 140 II. Second and Centre Panel: The Tower 146 III. Third Panel: The Tree 150 Four Songs From "The Prince of Ormuz": I. The Prince of Ormuz sings to Badoura 154 II. The Song of the Princess Beside the Fountain 155 III. The Song of the Prince in Disguise 156 IV. The Princess Badoura's Last Song to her Lover 157 The Gift of Song 160 Fragments from "Orestes": I. Warning Unheeded 164 II. Orestes to the Furies 167 Black Songs: I. At Braydon 170 II. Midday on the Edge of the Downs 172 III. In Dorsetshire 173 Man's Anacreontic 176 The Blackbird 179 Change 180 Transfiguration 181 Plaint of Pierrot Ill-Used 183 Girl's Song from "The Tailor" 188 Last Song in an Opera 190 Danaë: Mystery in Eight Poems 191 The Ecstasy 199 The Water-Lily 201 Deem You the Roses
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href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@39614@[email protected]#Page_202" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">202 The Passion 203 Last Words 206
ARDOURS AND
To THE Memory of my Trusty and
My thanks are due to the editor of the Times and of the Nation, to the editors of the Palatine Review, and to Messrs. Blackwell, Oxford, the publishers of "Oxford Poetry, 1915," and "Oxford Poetry, 1916," for permission to reprint certain of these poems.
R. M. B. N.
1917.
INTRODUCTION
1. Of the nature of the poet:
"We are (often) so impressed by the power of poetry that we think of it as something made by a wonderful and unusual person: we do not realize the fact that all the wonder and marvel is in our own brains, that the poet is ourselves. He speaks our language better than we do merely because he is more skilful with it than we are; his skill is part of our skill, his power of our power; generations of English-speaking men and women have made us sensible to these things, and our sensibility comes from the same source that the poet's power of stimulating it comes from. Given a little more sensitiveness to external stimuli, a little more power of associating ideas, a co-ordination of the functions of expression somewhat more apt, a sense of rhythm somewhat keener than the average—given these things we should be poets, too, even as he is.... He is one of us."
2. Of what English poetry consists:
"English poetry is not a rhythm of sound, but a rhythm of ideas, and the flow of attention-stresses (i.e., varying qualities of words and cadence) which determines its beauty is inseparably connected with the thought; for each of them is a judgment of identity, or a judgment of relation, or an expression of relation, and not a thing of mere empty sound.... He who would think of it as a pleasing arrangement of vocal sounds has missed all chance of ever understanding its meaning. There awaits him only the barren generalities of a foreign prosody, tedious, pedantic, fruitless. And he will flounder ceaselessly amid the scattered timbers of its iambuses, spondees, dactyls, tribrachs, never reaching the firm ground of truth."
"An Introduction To the Scientific Study Of
English Poetry,"[1] by Mark Liddell.
[1] Published by Grant Richards (1902). This remarkable book, establishing English poetry as a thing governed from within by its own necessities, and not by rules of æsthetics imposed on it from without, formulates principles which, unperceived, have governed English poetry from the earliest times, which find their greatest exemplar in Shakespeare, and which, though beginning to be realized by the less pedantic of the moderns, are in its pages for the first time lucidly expounded and—such is their adequacy—can, in the end, only be regarded as indubitably proven.—R. M. B. N., 1917.
BOOK I
ARDOURS AND
ENDURANCES
To THE Memory of my Trusty and
Gallant Friends: HAROLD STUART
GOUGH (King's Royal Rifle Corps) and
RICHARD PINSENT (the Worcester
Regiment)
"For what is life if measured by the space,
Not by the act?"
Not by the act?"
Ben Jonson.
THE SUMMONS
I.—TO——
Asleep within the deadest hour of night
And, turning with the earth, I was aware
How suddenly the eastern curve was bright,
As when the sun arises from his lair.
But not the sun arose: it was thy hair
Shaken up heaven in tossing leagues of light.
And, turning with the earth, I was aware
How suddenly the eastern curve was bright,
As when the sun arises from his lair.
But not the sun arose: it was thy hair
Shaken up heaven in tossing leagues of light.
Since then I know that neither night nor day
May I escape thee, O my heavenly hell!
Awake, in dreams, thou springest to waylay
And should I dare to die, I know full well
Whose voice would mock me in the mourning bell,
Whose face would greet me in hell's fiery way.
May I escape thee, O my heavenly hell!
Awake, in dreams, thou springest to waylay
And should I dare to die, I know full well
Whose voice would mock me in the mourning bell,
Whose face would greet me in hell's fiery way.
II.—THE PAST
How to escape the bondage of the past?
I fly thee, yet my spirit finds no calms
Save when she deems her rocked within those arms
To which, from which she ne'er was caught or cast.
I fly thee, yet my spirit finds no calms
Save when she deems her rocked within those arms
To which, from which she ne'er was caught or cast.
O sadness of a heart so spent in vain,
That drank its age's fuel in an hour:
For whom the whole world burning had not power
To quick with life the smouldered wick again!
That drank its age's fuel in an hour:
For whom the whole world burning had not power
To quick with life the smouldered wick again!
III.—THE RECKONING
The whole world burns, and with it burns my flesh.
Arise, thou spirit spent by sterile tears;
Thine eyes were ardent once, thy looks were fresh,
Thy brow shone bright amid thy shining peers.
Fame calls thee not, thou who hast vainly strayed
So far for her; nor Passion, who in the past
Gave thee her ghost to wed and to be paid;
Nor Love, whose anguish only learned to last.
Arise, thou spirit spent by sterile tears;
Thine eyes were ardent once, thy looks were fresh,
Thy brow shone bright amid thy shining peers.
Fame calls thee not, thou who hast vainly strayed
So far for her; nor Passion, who in the past
Gave thee her ghost to wed and to be paid;
Nor Love, whose anguish only learned to last.
Honour it is that calls: canst thou forget
Once thou wert strong? Listen; the solemn call
Sounds but this once again. Put by regret
For summons missed, or thou hast missed
Once thou wert strong? Listen; the solemn call
Sounds but this once again. Put by regret
For summons missed, or thou hast missed
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them all.
Body is ready, Fortune pleased; O let
Not the poor Past cost the proud Future's fall.
FAREWELL TO PLACE
Body is ready, Fortune pleased; O let
Not the poor Past cost the proud Future's fall.
FAREWELL TO PLACE
OF COMFORT
FAREWELL TO PLACE OF COMFORT
For the last time, maybe, upon the knoll
I stand. The eve is golden, languid, sad....
Day like a tragic actor plays his rôle
To the last whispered word, and falls gold-clad.
I, too, take leave of all I ever had.
I stand. The eve is golden, languid, sad....
Day like a tragic actor plays his rôle
To the last whispered word, and falls gold-clad.
I, too, take leave of all I ever had.
They shall not say I went with heavy heart:
Heavy I am, but soon I shall be free;
I love them all, but O I now depart
A little sadly, strangely, fearfully,
As one who goes to try a Mystery.
Heavy I am, but soon I shall be free;
I love them all, but O I now depart
A little sadly, strangely, fearfully,
As one who goes to try a Mystery.
The bell is sounding down in Dedham Vale:
Be still, O bell! too often standing here
When all the air was tremulous, fine, and pale,
Thy golden note so calm, so still, so clear,
Out of my stony heart has struck a tear.
Be still, O bell! too often standing here
When all the air was tremulous, fine, and pale,
Thy golden note so calm, so still, so clear,
Out of my stony heart has struck a tear.
And now tears are not mine. I have release
From all the former and the later pain;
Like the mid-sea I rock in boundless peace,
Soothed by the charity of the deep sea rain....
Calm rain! Calm sea! Calm found, long sought in vain.
From all the former and the later pain;
Like the mid-sea I rock in boundless peace,
Soothed by the charity of the deep sea rain....
Calm rain! Calm sea! Calm found, long sought in vain.
O bronzen pines, evening of gold and blue,
Steep mellow slope, brimmed twilit pools below,
Hushed trees, still vale dissolving in the dew,
Farewell! Farewell! There is no more to do.
We have been happy. Happy now I go.
Steep mellow slope, brimmed twilit pools below,
Hushed trees, still vale dissolving in the dew,
Farewell! Farewell! There is no more to do.
We have been happy. Happy now I go.
THE APPROACH
I.—IN THE GRASS: HALT BY ROADSIDE
In my tired, helpless body
I feel my sunk heart ache;
But suddenly, loudly
The far, the great guns shake.
I feel my sunk heart ache;
But suddenly, loudly
The far, the great guns shake.
Is it sudden terror
Burdens my heart? My hand
Flies to my head. I listen....
And do not understand.
Burdens my heart? My hand
Flies to my head. I listen....
And do not understand.
Is death so near, then?
From this blaze of light
Do I plunge suddenly
Into Vortex? Night?
From this blaze of light
Do I plunge suddenly
Into Vortex? Night?
Guns again! the quiet
Shakes at the vengeful voice....
It is terrible pleasure.
I do not fear: I rejoice.
Shakes at the vengeful voice....
It is terrible pleasure.
I do not fear: I rejoice.
II.—THE DAY'S MARCH
The battery grides and jingles,
Mile succeeds to mile;
Shaking the noonday sunshine,
The guns lunge out awhile,
And then are still awhile.
Mile succeeds to mile;
Shaking the noonday sunshine,
The guns lunge out awhile,
And then are still awhile.
We amble along the highway;
The reeking, powdery dust
Ascends and cakes our faces
With a striped, sweaty crust.
The reeking, powdery dust
Ascends and cakes our faces
With a striped, sweaty crust.
Under the still sky's violet
The heat thróbs on the air....
The white road's dusty radiance
Assumes a dark glare.
The heat thróbs on the air....
The white road's dusty radiance
Assumes a dark glare.
With a head hot and heavy,
And eyes that cannot rest,
And a black heart burning
In a stifled breast,
And eyes that cannot rest,
And a black heart burning
In a stifled breast,
I sit in the saddle,
I feel the road unroll,
And keep my senses straightened
Toward to-morrow's goal.
I feel the road unroll,
And keep my senses straightened
Toward to-morrow's goal.
There, over unknown meadows
Which we must reach at last,
Day and night thunders
A black and chilly blast.
Which we must reach at last,
Day and night thunders
A black and chilly blast.
Heads forget heaviness,
Hearts forget spleen,
For by that mighty winnowing
Being is blown clean.
Hearts forget spleen,
For by that mighty winnowing
Being is blown clean.
Light in the eyes again,
Strength in the hand,
A spirit dares, dies, forgives,
And can understand!
Strength in the hand,
A spirit dares, dies, forgives,
And can understand!
And, best! Love comes back again
After grief and shame,
And along the wind of death
Throws a clean flame.
After grief and shame,
And along the wind of death
Throws a clean flame.
The battery grides and jingles,
Mile succeeds to mile;
Suddenly battering the silence
The guns burst out awhile.
Mile succeeds to mile;
Suddenly battering the silence
The guns burst out awhile.
I lift my head and smile.
III.—NEARER
Nearer and ever nearer....
My body, tired but tense,
Hovers 'twixt vague pleasure
And tremulous confidence.
My body, tired but tense,
Hovers 'twixt vague pleasure
And tremulous confidence.
Arms to have and to use them
And a soul to be made
Worthy if not worthy;
If afraid, unafraid.
And a soul to be made
Worthy if not worthy;
If afraid, unafraid.
To endure for a little,
To endure and have done:
Men I love about me,
Over me the sun!
To endure and have done:
Men I love about me,
Over me the sun!
And should at last suddenly
Fly the speeding death,
The four great quarters of heaven
Receive this little breath.
Fly the speeding death,
The four great quarters of heaven
Receive this little breath.
BATTLE
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I.—NOON
It is midday: the deep trench glares....
A buzz and blaze of flies....
The hot wind puffs the giddy airs....
The great sun rakes the skies.
A buzz and blaze of flies....
The hot wind puffs the giddy airs....
The great sun rakes the skies.
No sound in all the stagnant trench
Where forty standing men
Endure the sweat and grit and stench,
Like cattle in a pen.
Where forty standing men
Endure the sweat and grit and stench,
Like cattle in a pen.
Sometimes a sniper's bullet whirs
Or twangs the whining wire;
Sometimes a soldier sighs and stirs
As in hell's frying fire.
Or twangs the whining wire;
Sometimes a soldier sighs and stirs
As in hell's frying fire.
From out a high cool cloud descends
An aeroplane's far moan....
The sun strikes down, the thin cloud rends....
The black speck travels on.
An aeroplane's far moan....
The sun strikes down, the thin cloud rends....
The black speck travels on.
And sweating, dizzied, isolate
In the hot trench beneath,
We bide the next shrewd move of fate
Be it of life or death.
In the hot trench beneath,
We bide the next shrewd move of fate
Be it of life or death.
II.—NIGHT BOMBARDMENT
Softly in the silence the evening rain descends....
The soft wind lifts the rain-mist, flurries it, and spends
Its grief in mournful sighs, drifting from field to field,
Soaking the draggled sprays which the low hedges wield
As they labour in the wet and the load of the wind.
The last light is dimming; night comes on behind.
The soft wind lifts the rain-mist, flurries it, and spends
Its grief in mournful sighs, drifting from field to field,
Soaking the draggled sprays which the low hedges wield
As they labour in the wet and the load of the wind.
The last light is dimming; night comes on behind.
I hear no sound but the wind and the rain,
And trample of horses, loud and lost again
Where the waggons in the mist rumble dimly on
Bringing more shell.
The last gleam is gone.
It is not day or night; only the mists unroll
And blind with their sorrow the sight of my soul.
And trample of horses, loud and lost again
Where the waggons in the mist rumble dimly on
Bringing more shell.
The last gleam is gone.
It is not day or night; only the mists unroll
And blind with their sorrow the sight of my soul.
I hear the wind weeping in the hollow overhead:
She goes searching for the forgotten dead
Hidden in the hedges or trodden into muck
Under the trenches, or maybe limply stuck
Somewhere in the branches of a high lonely tree—
He was a sniper once. They never found his body.
She goes searching for the forgotten dead
Hidden in the hedges or trodden into muck
Under the trenches, or maybe limply stuck
Somewhere in the branches of a high lonely tree—
He was a sniper once. They never found his body.
I see the mist drifting. I hear the wind and rain,
And on my clammy face the oozed breath of the slain
Seems to be blowing. Almost I have heard
In the shuddering drift the lost dead's last word:
And on my clammy face the oozed breath of the slain
Seems to be blowing. Almost I have heard
In the shuddering drift the lost dead's last word:
Go home, go home, go to my house;
Knock at the door, knock hard, arouse
My wife and the children—that you must do—
What do you say?—Tell the children, too—
Knock at the door, knock hard, arouse
The living. Say: the dead won't come back to this house.
O ... but it's cold—I soak in the rain—
Shrapnel found me—I shan't come home again—
No, not home again!
Knock at the door, knock hard, arouse
My wife and the children—that you must do—
What do you say?—Tell the children, too—
Knock at the door, knock hard, arouse
The living. Say: the dead won't come back to this house.
O ... but it's cold—I soak in the rain—
Shrapnel found me—I shan't come home again—
No, not home again!
The mourning voices trail
Away into rain, into darkness ... the pale
Soughing of the night drifts on in between.
Away into rain, into darkness ... the pale
Soughing of the night drifts on in between.
The Voices were as if the dead had never been.
O melancholy heavens, O melancholy fields,
The glad, full darkness grows complete and shields
Me from your appeal.
With a terrible delight
I hear far guns low like oxen at the night.
Flames disrupt the sky.
The work is begun.
"Action!" My guns crash, flame, rock and stun
Again and again. Soon the soughing night
Is loud with their clamour and leaps with their light.
The glad, full darkness grows complete and shields
Me from your appeal.
With a terrible delight
I hear far guns low like oxen at the night.
Flames disrupt the sky.
The work is begun.
"Action!" My guns crash, flame, rock and stun
Again and again. Soon the soughing night
Is loud with their clamour and leaps with their light.
The imperative chorus rises sonorous and fell:
My heart glows lighted as by fires of hell.
Sharply I pass the terse orders down.
The guns blare and rock. The hissing rain is blown
Athwart the hurtled shell that shrilling, shrilling goes
Away into the dark, to burst a cloud of rose
Over German trenches.
A pause: I stand and see
Lifting into the night like founts incessantly
The pistol-lights' pale spores upon the glimmering air....
Under them furrowed trenches empty, pallid, bare....
And rain snowing trenchward ghostly and white.
My heart glows lighted as by fires of hell.
Sharply I pass the terse orders down.
The guns blare and rock. The hissing rain is blown
Athwart the hurtled shell that shrilling, shrilling goes
Away into the dark, to burst a cloud of rose
Over German trenches.
A pause: I stand and see
Lifting into the night like founts incessantly
The pistol-lights' pale spores upon the glimmering air....
Under them furrowed trenches empty, pallid, bare....
And rain snowing trenchward ghostly and white.
O dead in the hedges, sleep ye well to-night!
III.—COMRADES: AN EPISODE
Before, before he was aware
The 'Verey' light had risen ... on the air
It hung glistering....
And he could not stay his hand
From moving to the barbed wire's broken strand.
A rifle cracked.
He fell.
Night waned. He was alone. A heavy shell
Whispered itself passing high, high overhead.
His wound was wet to his hand: for still it bled
On to the glimmering ground.
Then with a slow, vain smile his wound he bound,
Knowing, of course, he'd not see home again—
Home whose thought he put away.
His men
Whispered: "Where's Mister Gates?" "Out on the wire."
"I'll get him," said one....
Dawn blinked, and the fire
Of the Germans heaved up and down the line.
"Stand to!"
Too late! "I'll get him." "O the swine!
When we might get him in yet safe and whole!"
"Corporal didn't see 'un fall out on patrol,
Or he'd 'a got 'un." "Sssh!"
"No talking there."
A whisper: "'A went down at the last
The 'Verey' light had risen ... on the air
It hung glistering....
And he could not stay his hand
From moving to the barbed wire's broken strand.
A rifle cracked.
He fell.
Night waned. He was alone. A heavy shell
Whispered itself passing high, high overhead.
His wound was wet to his hand: for still it bled
On to the glimmering ground.
Then with a slow, vain smile his wound he bound,
Knowing, of course, he'd not see home again—
Home whose thought he put away.
His men
Whispered: "Where's Mister Gates?" "Out on the wire."
"I'll get him," said one....
Dawn blinked, and the fire
Of the Germans heaved up and down the line.
"Stand to!"
Too late! "I'll get him." "O the swine!
When we might get him in yet safe and whole!"
"Corporal didn't see 'un fall out on patrol,
Or he'd 'a got 'un." "Sssh!"
"No talking there."
A whisper: "'A went down at the last
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flare."
Meanwhile the Maxims toc-toc-tocked; their swish
Of bullets told death lurked against the wish.
No hope for him!
His corporal, as one shamed,
Vainly and helplessly his ill-luck blamed.
Meanwhile the Maxims toc-toc-tocked; their swish
Of bullets told death lurked against the wish.
No hope for him!
His corporal, as one shamed,
Vainly and helplessly his ill-luck blamed.
Then Gates slowly saw the morn
Break in a rosy peace through the lone thorn
By which he lay, and felt the dawn-wind pass
Whispering through the pallid, stalky grass
Of No-Man's Land....
And the tears came
Scaldingly sweet, more lovely than a flame.
He closed his eyes: he thought of home
And grit his teeth. He knew no help could come....
Break in a rosy peace through the lone thorn
By which he lay, and felt the dawn-wind pass
Whispering through the pallid, stalky grass
Of No-Man's Land....
And the tears came
Scaldingly sweet, more lovely than a flame.
He closed his eyes: he thought of home
And grit his teeth. He knew no help could come....
The silent sun over the earth held sway,
Occasional rifles cracked and far away
A heedless speck, a 'plane, slid on alone,
Like a fly traversing a cliff of stone.
Occasional rifles cracked and far away
A heedless speck, a 'plane, slid on alone,
Like a fly traversing a cliff of stone.
"I must get back," said Gates aloud, and heaved
At his body. But it lay bereaved
Of any power. He could not wait till night....
And he lay still. Blood swam across his sight.
Then with a groan:
"No luck ever! Well, I must die alone."
At his body. But it lay bereaved
Of any power. He could not wait till night....
And he lay still. Blood swam across his sight.
Then with a groan:
"No luck ever! Well, I must die alone."
Occasional rifles cracked. A cloud that shone,
Gold-rimmed, blackened the sun and then was gone....
The sun still smiled. The grass sang in its play.
Someone whistled: "Over the hills and far away."
Gates watched silently the swift, swift sun
Burning his life before it was begun....
Gold-rimmed, blackened the sun and then was gone....
The sun still smiled. The grass sang in its play.
Someone whistled: "Over the hills and far away."
Gates watched silently the swift, swift sun
Burning his life before it was begun....
Suddenly he heard Corporal Timmins' voice:
"Now then,
'Urry up with that tea."
"Hi Ginger!" "Bill!" His men!
Timmins and Jones and Wilkinson (the 'bard'),
And Hughes and Simpson. It was hard
Not to see them: Wilkinson, stubby, grim,
With his "No, sir," "Yes, sir," and the slim
Simpson: "Indeed, sir?" (while it seemed he winked
Because his smiling left eye always blinked)
And Corporal Timmins, straight and blonde and wise,
With his quiet-scanning, level, hazel eyes;
And all the others ... tunics that didn't fit....
A dozen different sorts of eyes. O it
Was hard to lie there! Yet he must. But no:
"I've got to die. I'll get to them. I'll go."
"Now then,
'Urry up with that tea."
"Hi Ginger!" "Bill!" His men!
Timmins and Jones and Wilkinson (the 'bard'),
And Hughes and Simpson. It was hard
Not to see them: Wilkinson, stubby, grim,
With his "No, sir," "Yes, sir," and the slim
Simpson: "Indeed, sir?" (while it seemed he winked
Because his smiling left eye always blinked)
And Corporal Timmins, straight and blonde and wise,
With his quiet-scanning, level, hazel eyes;
And all the others ... tunics that didn't fit....
A dozen different sorts of eyes. O it
Was hard to lie there! Yet he must. But no:
"I've got to die. I'll get to them. I'll go."
Inch by inch he fought, breathless and mute,
Dragging his carcase like a famished brute....
His head was hammering, and his eyes were dim;
A bloody sweat seemed to ooze out of him
And freeze along his spine.... Then he'd lie still
Before another effort of his will
Took him one nearer yard.
Dragging his carcase like a famished brute....
His head was hammering, and his eyes were dim;
A bloody sweat seemed to ooze out of him
And freeze along his spine.... Then he'd lie still
Before another effort of his will
Took him one nearer yard.
The parapet was reached.
He could not rise to it. A lookout screeched:
"Mr. Gates!"
Three figures in one breath
Leaped up. Two figures fell in toppling death;
And Gates was lifted in. "Who's hit?" said he.
"Timmins and Jones." "Why did they that for me?—
I'm gone already!" Gently they laid him prone
And silently watched.
He twitched. They heard him moan
"Why for me?" His eyes roamed round, and none replied.
"I see it was alone I should have died."
They shook their heads. Then, "Is the doctor here?"
"He's coming, sir; he's hurryin', no fear."
"No good....
Lift me." They lifted him.
He smiled and held his arms out to the dim,
And in a moment passed beyond their ken,
Hearing him whisper, "O my men, my men!"
He could not rise to it. A lookout screeched:
"Mr. Gates!"
Three figures in one breath
Leaped up. Two figures fell in toppling death;
And Gates was lifted in. "Who's hit?" said he.
"Timmins and Jones." "Why did they that for me?—
I'm gone already!" Gently they laid him prone
And silently watched.
He twitched. They heard him moan
"Why for me?" His eyes roamed round, and none replied.
"I see it was alone I should have died."
They shook their heads. Then, "Is the doctor here?"
"He's coming, sir; he's hurryin', no fear."
"No good....
Lift me." They lifted him.
He smiled and held his arms out to the dim,
And in a moment passed beyond their ken,
Hearing him whisper, "O my men, my men!"
In Hospital, London,
Autumn, 1915.
Autumn, 1915.