<h2> A Terre </h2>
<p>(Being the philosophy of many Soldiers.)<br/></p>
<p>Sit on the bed; I'm blind, and three parts shell,<br/>
Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall.<br/>
Both arms have mutinied against me—brutes.<br/>
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats.<br/>
<br/>
I tried to peg out soldierly—no use!<br/>
One dies of war like any old disease.<br/>
This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes.<br/>
I have my medals?—Discs to make eyes close.<br/>
My glorious ribbons?—Ripped from my own back<br/>
In scarlet shreds. (That's for your poetry book.)<br/>
<br/>
A short life and a merry one, my brick!<br/>
We used to say we'd hate to live dead old,—<br/>
Yet now . . . I'd willingly be puffy, bald,<br/>
And patriotic. Buffers catch from boys<br/>
At least the jokes hurled at them. I suppose<br/>
Little I'd ever teach a son, but hitting,<br/>
Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting.<br/>
Well, that's what I learnt,—that, and making money.<br/>
Your fifty years ahead seem none too many?<br/>
Tell me how long I've got? God! For one year<br/>
To help myself to nothing more than air!<br/>
One Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long?<br/>
Spring wind would work its own way to my lung,<br/>
And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.<br/>
My servant's lamed, but listen how he shouts!<br/>
When I'm lugged out, he'll still be good for that.<br/>
Here in this mummy-case, you know, I've thought<br/>
How well I might have swept his floors for ever,<br/>
I'd ask no night off when the bustle's over,<br/>
Enjoying so the dirt. Who's prejudiced<br/>
Against a grimed hand when his own's quite dust,<br/>
Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn,<br/>
Less warm than dust that mixes with arms' tan?<br/>
I'd love to be a sweep, now, black as Town,<br/>
Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?<br/>
<br/>
O Life, Life, let me breathe,—a dug-out rat!<br/>
Not worse than ours the existences rats lead—<br/>
Nosing along at night down some safe vat,<br/>
They find a shell-proof home before they rot.<br/>
Dead men may envy living mites in cheese,<br/>
Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys,<br/>
And subdivide, and never come to death,<br/>
Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth.<br/>
"I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone."<br/>
Shelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned;<br/>
The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now.<br/>
"Pushing up daisies," is their creed, you know.<br/>
To grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap,<br/>
For all the usefulness there is in soap.<br/>
D'you think the Boche will ever stew man-soup?<br/>
Some day, no doubt, if . . .<br/>
Friend, be very sure<br/>
I shall be better off with plants that share<br/>
More peaceably the meadow and the shower.<br/>
Soft rains will touch me,—as they could touch once,<br/>
And nothing but the sun shall make me ware.<br/>
Your guns may crash around me. I'll not hear;<br/>
Or, if I wince, I shall not know I wince.<br/>
Don't take my soul's poor comfort for your jest.<br/>
Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds,<br/>
But here the thing's best left at home with friends.<br/>
<br/>
My soul's a little grief, grappling your chest,<br/>
To climb your throat on sobs; easily chased<br/>
On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.<br/>
<br/>
Carry my crying spirit till it's weaned<br/>
To do without what blood remained these wounds.<br/></p>
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