The Second Book of Modern Verse Part 31

The wind cried loud in gusts, then low again.

Three pines strained darkly, runners in a race Unseen by any. Toward the further woods A dim harsh noise of voices rose and ceased.

-- We were most silent in those solitudes -- Then, sudden as a flame, the black-robed priest, The clotted earth piled roughly up about The hacked red oblong of the new-made thing, Short words in swordlike Latin -- and a rout Of dreams most impotent, unwearying.

Then, like a blind door shut on a carouse, The terrible bareness of the soul's last house.

I have a Rendezvous with Death. [Alan Seeger]

I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air -- I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath -- It may be I shall pa.s.s him still.

I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear.

G.o.d knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear . . .

But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous.

Rouge Bouquet. [Joyce Kilmer]

In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet There is a new-made grave to-day, Built by never a spade nor pick Yet covered with earth ten metres thick.

There lie many fighting men, Dead in their youthful prime, Never to laugh nor love again Nor taste the Summertime.

For Death came flying through the air And stopped his flight at the dugout stair, Touched his prey and left them there, Clay to clay.

He hid their bodies stealthily In the soil of the land they fought to free And fled away.

Now over the grave abrupt and clear Three volleys ring; And perhaps their brave young spirits hear The bugle sing: "Go to sleep!

Go to sleep!

Slumber well where the sh.e.l.l screamed and fell.

Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor, You will not need them any more.

Danger's past; Now at last, Go to sleep!"

There is on earth no worthier grave To hold the bodies of the brave Than this place of pain and pride Where they n.o.bly fought and n.o.bly died.

Never fear but in the skies Saints and angels stand Smiling with their holy eyes On this new-come band.

St. Michael's sword darts through the air And touches the aureole on his hair As he sees them stand saluting there, His stalwart sons; And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill Rejoice that in veins of warriors still The Gael's blood runs.

And up to Heaven's doorway floats, From the wood called Rouge Bouquet, A delicate cloud of buglenotes That softly say: "Farewell!

Farewell!

Comrades true, born anew, peace to you!

Your souls shall be where the heroes are And your memory s.h.i.+ne like the morning-star.

Brave and dear, s.h.i.+eld us here.

Farewell!"

Francis Ledwidge. [Grace Hazard Conkling]

(Killed in action July 31, 1917)

Nevermore singing Will you go now, Wearing wild moonlight On your brow.

The moon's white mood In your silver mind Is all forgotten.

Words of wind From off the hedgerow After rain, You do not hear them; They are vain.

There is a linnet Craves a song, And you returning Before long.

Now who will tell her, Who can say On what great errand You are away?

You whose kindred Were hills of Meath, Who sang the lane-rose From her sheath, What voice will cry them The grief at dawn Or say to the blackbird You are gone?

April on the Battlefields. [Leonora Speyer]

April now walks the fields again, Trailing her tearful leaves And holding all her frightened buds against her heart: Wrapt in her clouds and mists, She walks, Groping her way among the graves of men.

The green of earth is differently green, A dreadful knowledge trembles in the gra.s.s, And little wide-eyed flowers die too soon: There is a stillness here -- After a terror of all raving sounds -- And birds sit close for comfort upon the boughs Of broken trees.

April, thou grief!

What of thy sun and glad, high wind, Thy valiant hills and woods and eager brooks, Thy thousand-petalled hopes?

~The sky forbids thee sorrow, April!~ And yet -- I see thee walking listlessly Across those scars that once were joyous sod, Those graves, Those stepping-stones from life to life.

Death is an interruption between two heart-beats, That I know -- Yet know not how I know -- But April mourns, Trailing her tender green, The pa.s.sion of her green, Across the pa.s.sion of those fearful fields.

~Yes, all the fields!~ No barrier here, No challenge in the night, No stranger-land; She pa.s.ses with her perfect countersign, Her green; She wanders in her mournful garden, Dropping her buds like tears, Spreading her lovely grief upon the graves of man.

Earth's Easter. [Robert Haven Schauffler]

(1915)

Earth has gone up from its Gethsemane, And now on Golgotha is crucified; The spear is twisted in the tortured side; The th.o.r.n.y crown still works its cruelty.

Hark! while the victim suffers on the tree, There sound through starry s.p.a.ces, far and wide, Such words as in the last despair are cried: "My G.o.d! my G.o.d! Thou hast forsaken me!"

But when earth's members from the cross are drawn, And all we love into the grave is gone, This hope shall be a spark within the gloom: That, in the glow of some stupendous dawn, We may go forth to find, where lilies bloom, Two angels bright before an empty tomb.

The Fields. [Witter Bynner]