1
HERE I’m sitting in the gloom | |
| Of my quiet attic room. | |
| France goes rolling all around, | |
| Fledged with forest May has crowned. | |
| And I puff my pipe, calm-hearted, | 5 |
| Thinking how the fighting started, | |
| Wondering when we’ll ever end it, | |
| Back to Hell with Kaiser send it, | |
| Gag the noise, pack up and go, | |
| Clockwork soldiers in a row. | 10 |
| I’ve got better things to do | |
| Than to waste my time on you. | |
| |
2
Robert, when I drowse to-night, | |
| Skirting lawns of sleep to chase | |
| Shifting dreams in mazy light, | 15 |
| Somewhere then I’ll see your face | |
| Turning back to bid me follow | |
| Where I wag my arms and hollo, | |
| Over hedges hasting after | |
| Crooked smile and baffling laughter. | 20 |
| Running tireless, floating, leaping, | |
| Down your web-hung woods and valleys, | |
| Garden glooms and hornbeam alleys, | |
| Where the glowworm stars are peeping, | |
| Till I find you, quiet as stone | 25 |
| On a hill-top all alone, | |
| Staring outward, gravely pondering | |
| Jumbled leagues of hillock-wandering. | |
| |
3
You and I have walked together | |
| In the starving winter weather. | 30 |
| We’ve been glad because we knew | |
| Time’s too short and friends are few. | |
| We’ve been sad because we missed | |
| One whose yellow head was kissed | |
| By the gods, who thought about him | 35 |
| Till they couldn’t do without him. | |
| Now he’s here again; I’ve seen | |
| Soldier David dressed in green, | |
| Standing in a wood that swings | |
| To the madrigal he sings. | 40 |
| He’s come back, all mirth and glory, | |
| Like the prince in fairy story. | |
| Winter called him far away; | |
| Blossoms bring him home with May. | |
| |
4
Well, I know you’ll swear it’s true | 45 |
| That you found him decked in blue | |
| Striding up through morning-land | |
| With a cloud on either hand. | |
| Out in Wales, you’ll say, he marches, | |
| Arm in arm with oaks and larches; | 50 |
| Hides all night in hilly nooks, | |
| Laughs at dawn in tumbling brooks. | |
| Yet, it’s certain, here he teaches | |
| Outpost-schemes to groups of beeches. | |
| And I’m sure, as here I stand, | 55 |
| That he shines through every land, | |
| That he sings in every place | |
| Where we’re thinking of his face. | |
| |
5
Robert, there’s a war in France; | |
| Everywhere men bang and blunder, | 60 |
| Sweat and swear and worship Chance, | |
| Creep and blink through cannon thunder. | |
| Rifles crack and bullets flick, | |
| Sing and hum like hornet-swarms. | |
| Bones are smashed and buried quick. | 65 |
| 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. | 70 |
| 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!
S.S. Flixécourt. May 1916. | |
