THE BUGLER
GOD dreamed a man;
Then, having firmly shut
Life, like a precious metal in his fist,
Withdrew, His labour done. Thus did begin
Our various divinity and sin—
For some to ploughshares did the metal twist,
And others—dreaming Empires—straightway cut
Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat
Long nails and heavy hammers for the feet
Of their forgotten Lord. (Who dare to boast
That he is guiltless?) Others coined it: most
Did with it—simply nothing. (Here again
Who cries his innocence?) Yet doth remain
Metal unmarred, to each man more or less,
Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness.
For me, I do but bear within my hand
(For sake of Him, our Lord, now long forsaken)
A simple bugle such as may awaken
With one high morning note a drowsing man:
That wheresoe'er within my motherland
The sound may come, 'twill echo far and wide,
Like pipes of battle calling up a clan,
Trumpeting men through beauty to God's side.
[Written in a German prison camp.]
BEFORE GINCHY
September, 1916
YON poisonous clod,
(Look! I could touch it with my stick!) that lies
In the next ulcer of this shell-pock'd land
To that which holds me now;
Yon carrion, with its devil-swarm of flies
That scorn the protest of the limp, cold hand,
Seeming half-rais'd to shield the matted brow;
Those festering rags whose colour mocks the sod;
And, O ye gods, those eyes!
Those staring, staring eyes!
