104 WILFRID WILSON GIBSON
Your luck and grin. It wasn't so much pluck As knowing that you'd got to, when needs must, And better to die grinning . . .
Quiet now Had fallen on the night. On either hand The guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow The quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned The starry sky. He'd never seen before So many stars. Although, of course, he'd known That there were stars, somehow before the war He'd never realised them — so thick-sown. Millions and millions. Serving in the shop. Stars didn't count for much ; and then at nights Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop, You didn't see much but the city lights. He'd never in his life seen so much sky As he'd seen this last fortnight. It was queer The things war taught you. He'd a mind to try To count the stars — they shone so bright and clear. One, two, three, four . . . Ah, God, but he was
tired . . . Five, six, seven, eight . . .
Yes, it was number eight. And what was the next thing that she required ? (Too bad of customers to come so late. At closing-time !) Again within the shop He handled knots of tape and reels of thread. Politely talking weather, fit to drop . . .
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