The War Poems of Siegfried Sassoon Part 7

CONCERT PARTY

(EGYPTIAN BASE CAMP)

They are gathering round ...

Out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand, Shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the sound,-- The jangle and throb of a piano ... tum-ti-tum ...

Drawn by a lamp, they come Out of the glimmering lines of their tents, over the shuffling sand.

O sing us the songs, the songs of our own land, You warbling ladies in white.

Dimness conceals the hunger in our faces, This wall of faces risen out of the night, These eyes that keep their memories of the places So long beyond their sight.

Jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brown Tilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale, He rattles the keys ... some actor-bloke from town ...

"_G.o.d send you home_"; and then "_A long, long trail_"; "_I hear you catting me_"; and "_Dixieland_" ...

Sing slowly ... now the chorus ... one by one We hear them, drink them; till the concert's done.

Silent, I watch the shadowy ma.s.s of soldiers stand.

Silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand.

KANTARA, _April, 1918._

NIGHT ON THE CONVOY

(ALEXANDRIA-Ma.r.s.eILLES)

Out in the bl.u.s.tering darkness, on the deck A gleam of stars looks down. Long blurs of black, The lean Destroyers, level with our track, Plunging and stealing, watch the perilous way Through backward racing seas and caverns of chill spray.

One sentry by the davits, in the gloom Stands mute; the boat heaves onward through the night.

Shrouded is every c.h.i.n.k of cabined light: And sluiced by floundering waves that hiss and boom And crash like guns, the troop-s.h.i.+p shudders ... doom.

Now something at my feet stirs with a sigh; And slowly growing used to groping dark, I know that the hurricane-deck, down all its length, Is heaped and spread with lads in sprawling strength,-- Blanketed soldiers sleeping. In the stark Danger of life at war, they lie so still, All prostrate and defenceless, head by head ...

And I remember Arras, and that hill Where dumb with pain I stumbled among the dead.

We are going home. The troop-s.h.i.+p, in a thrill Of fiery-chamber'd anguish, throbs and rolls.

We are going home ... victims ... three thousand souls.

_May, 1918._

A LETTER HOME

(To Robert Graves)

I

Here I'm sitting in the gloom Of my quiet attic room.

France goes rolling all around, Fledged with forest May has crowned.

And I puff my pipe, calm-hearted, Thinking how the fighting started, Wondering when we'll ever end it, Back to h.e.l.l with Kaiser send it, Gag the noise, pack up and go, Clockwork soldiers in a row.

I've got better things to do Than to waste my time on you.

II

Robert, when I drowse to-night, Skirting lawns of sleep to chase s.h.i.+fting dreams in mazy light, Somewhere then I'll see your face Turning back to bid me follow Where I wag my arms and hollo, Over hedges hasting after Crooked smile and baffling laughter, Running tireless, floating, leaping, Down your web-hung woods and valleys, Garden glooms and hornbeam alleys, Where the glowworm stars are peeping, Till I find you, quiet as stone On a hill-top all alone, Staring outward, gravely pondering Jumbled leagues of hillock-wandering.

III

You and I have walked together In the starving winter weather.

We've been glad because we knew Time's too short and friends are few.

We've been sad because we missed One whose yellow head was kissed By the G.o.ds, who thought about him Till they couldn't do without him.

Now he's here again; I've seen Soldier David dressed in green, Standing in a wood that swings To the madrigal he sings.

He's come back, all mirth and glory, Like the prince in a fairy story.

Winter called him far away; Blossoms bring him home with May.

IV

Well, I know you'll swear it's true That you found him decked in blue Striding up through morning-land With a cloud on either hand.

Out in Wales, you'll say, he marches Arm-in-arm with oaks and larches; Hides all night in hilly nooks, Laughs at dawn in tumbling brooks.

Yet, it's certain, here he teaches Outpost-schemes to groups of beeches.

And I'm sure, as here I stand, That he s.h.i.+nes through every land, That he sings in every place Where we're thinking of his face.

V

Robert, there's a war in France; Everywhere men bang and blunder, Sweat and swear and wors.h.i.+p Chance, Creep and blink through cannon thunder.

Rifles crack and bullets flick, Sing and hum like hornet-swarms.

Bones are smashed and buried quick.

Yet, through stunning battle storms.

All the while I watch the spark Lit to guide me; for I know Dreams will triumph, though the dark Scowls above me where I go.

_You_ can hear me; _you_ can mingle Radiant folly with my jingle, War's a joke for me and you While we know such dreams are true!

RECONCILIATION

When you are standing at your hero's grave, Or near some homeless village where he died, Remember, through your heart's rekindling pride, The German soldiers who were loyal and brave.

Men fought like brutes; and hideous things were done: And you have nourished hatred, harsh and blind.

But in that Golgotha perhaps you'll find The mothers of the men who killed your son.

_November, 1918._

MEMORIAL TABLET

(GREAT WAR)

Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight (Under Lord Derby's scheme). I died in h.e.l.l-- (They called it Pa.s.schendaele); my wound was slight, And I was hobbling back, and then a sh.e.l.l Burst slick upon the duck-boards; so I fell Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light.

In sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew, He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare; For though low down upon the list, I'm there: "In proud and glorious memory"--that's my due.

Two bleeding years I fought in France for Squire; I suffered anguish that he's never guessed; Once I came home on leave; and then went west.