Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 34

You and You

_To the American Private in the Great War_

Every one of you won the war-- You and you and you-- Each one knowing what it was for, And what was his job to do.

Every one of you won the war, Obedient, unwearied, unknown, Dung in the trenches, drift on the sh.o.r.e, Dust to the world's end blown; Every one of you, steady and true, You and you and you-- Down in the pit or up in the blue, Whether you crawled or sailed or flew, Whether your closest comrade knew Or you bore the brunt alone--

All of you, all of you, name after name, Jones and Robinson, Smith and Brown, You from the piping prairie town, You from the Fundy fogs that came, You from the city's roaring blocks, You from the bleak New England rocks With the s.h.i.+ngled roof in the apple boughs, You from the brown adobe house-- You from the Rockies, you from the Coast, You from the burning frontier-post And you from the Klond.y.k.e's frozen flanks, You from the cedar-swamps, you from the pine, You from the cotton and you from the vine, You from the rice and the sugar-brakes, You from the Rivers and you from the Lakes, You from the Creeks and you from the Licks And you from the brown bayou-- You and you and you-- You from the pulpit, you from the mine, You from the factories, you from the banks, Closer and closer, ranks on ranks, Airplanes and cannon, and rifles and tanks, Smith and Robinson, Brown and Jones, Ruddy faces or bleaching bones, After the turmoil and blood and pain Swinging home to the folks again Or sleeping alone in the fine French rain-- Every one of you won the war.

Every one of you won the war-- You and you and you-- Pressing and pouring forth, more and more, Toiling and straining from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e To reach the flaming edge of the dark Where man in his millions went up like a spark, You, in your thousands and millions coming, All the sea ploughed with you, all the air humming, All the land loud with you, All our hearts proud with you, All our souls bowed with the awe of your coming!

Where's the Arch high enough, Lads, to receive you, Where's the eye dry enough, Dears, to perceive you, When at last and at last in your glory you come, Tramping home?

Every one of you won the war, You and you and you-- You that carry an unscathed head, You that halt with a broken tread, And oh, most of all, you Dead, you Dead!

Lift up the Gates for these that are last, That are last in the great Procession.

Let the living pour in, take possession, Flood back to the city, the ranch, the farm, The church and the college and mill, Back to the office, the store, the exchange, Back to the wife with the babe on her arm, Back to the mother that waits on the sill, And the supper that's hot on the range.

And now, when the last of them all are by, Be the Gates lifted up on high To let those Others in, Those Others, their brothers, that softly tread, That come so thick, yet take no ground, That are so many, yet make no sound, Our Dead, our Dead, our Dead!

O silent and secretly-moving throng, In your fifty thousand strong, Coming at dusk when the wreaths have dropt, And streets are empty, and music stopt, Silently coming to hearts that wait Dumb in the door and dumb at the gate, And hear your step and fly to your call-- Every one of you won the war, But you, you Dead, most of all!

_Edith Wharton (Copyright 1919 by Charles Scrihner's, Sons)._

The First Snow-fall

The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm tree Was ridged inch-deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's m.u.f.fled crow, The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood; How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"

And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of our deep-plunged woe.

And again to the child I whispered, "The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall!"

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; And she, kissing back, could not know That _my_ kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow.

_James Russell Lowell._

The Concord Hymn

_Sung at the completion of the Concord Monument, April 19, 1836_.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone, That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made these heroes dare To die, to leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.

_Ralph Waldo Emerson._

Casey at the Bat

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day; The score stood two to four with but an inning left to play; So, when c.o.o.ney died at second, and Burrows did the same, A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast, For they thought: "If only Casey could get a whack at that,"

They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake, And the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake; So on that stricken mult.i.tude a deathlike silence sat.

For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat,

But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all, And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball"; And when the dust had lifted and they saw what had occurred, There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin' third.

Then, from the gladdened mult.i.tude went up a joyous yell, It rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell; It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his s.h.i.+rt; Then while the New York pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the st.u.r.dy batsman the ball unheeded sped-- "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a m.u.f.fled roar, Like the beating of great storm waves on a stern and distant sh.o.r.e.

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand.