The War Poems of Siegfried Sassoon Part 8

What greater glory could a man desire?

THE DEATH-BED

He drowsed and was aware of silence heaped Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls; Aqueous like floating rays of amber light, Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep,-- Silence and safety; and his mortal sh.o.r.e Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death.

Some one was holding water to his mouth.

He swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped Through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot The opiate throb and ache that was his wound.

Water--calm, sliding green above the weir; Water--a sky-lit alley for his boat, Bird-voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers And shaken hues of summer: drifting down, He dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept.

Night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward, Blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve.

Night. He was blind; he could not see the stars Glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud; Queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green, Flickered and faded in his drowning eyes.

Rain; he could hear it rustling through the dark; Fragrance and pa.s.sionless music woven as one; Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers That soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace Gently and slowly was.h.i.+ng life away.

He stirred, s.h.i.+fting his body; then the pain Leaped like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs.

But some one was beside him; soon he lay Shuddering because that evil thing had pa.s.sed.

And Death, who'd stepped toward him, paused and stared.

Light many lamps and gather round his bed.

Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live.

Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet.

He's young; he hated war; how should he die When cruel old campaigners win safe through?

But Death replied: "I choose him." So he went, And there was silence in the summer night; Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep.

Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.

AFTERMATH

_Have you forgotten yet?..._ For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days, Like traffic checked awhile at the crossing of city ways: And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow Like clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you're a man reprieved to go, Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.

_But the past is just the same,--and War's a b.l.o.o.d.y game,...

Have you forgotten yet?...

Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget._

Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz,-- The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?

Do you remember the rats; and the stench Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench,-- And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?

Do you ever stop and ask, "Is it all going to happen again?"

Do you remember that hour of din before the attack,-- And the anger, the blind compa.s.sion that seized and shook you then As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?

Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back With dying eyes and lolling heads,--those ashen-grey Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?

_Have you forgotten yet?...

Look up, and swear by the green of the Spring that you'll never forget._

SONG-BOOKS OF THE WAR

In fifty years, when peace outs.h.i.+nes Remembrance of the battle lines, Adventurous lads will sigh and cast Proud looks upon the plundered past.

On summer morn or winter's night, Their hearts will kindle for the fight, Reading a s.n.a.t.c.h of soldier-song, Savage and jaunty, fierce and strong; And through the angry marching rhymes Of blind regret and haggard mirth, They'll envy us the dazzling times When sacrifice absolved our earth.

Some ancient man with silver locks Will lift his weary face to say: "War was a fiend who stopped our clocks Although we met him grim and gay."

And then he'll speak of Haig's last drive, Marvelling that any came alive Out of the shambles that men built And smashed, to cleanse the world of guilt.

But the boys, with grin and sidelong glance, Will think, "Poor grandad's day is done."

And dream of lads who fought in France And lived in time to share the fun.

EVERYONE SANG

Everyone suddenly burst out singing; And I was filled with such delight As prisoned birds must find in freedom Winging wildly across the white Orchards and dark green fields; on; on; and out of sight.

Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted, And beauty came like the setting sun.

My heart was shaken with tears and horror Drifted away ... O but every one Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.

_April, 1919._