Chapter 3
Near Martinpuisch that night of hell Two men were struck by the same shell, Together tumbling in one heap Senseless and limp like slaughtered sheep.
One was a pale eighteen-year-old, Girlish and thin and not too bold, Pressed for the war ten years too soon, The shame and pity of his platoon.
The other came from far-off lands With bristling chin and whiskered hands, He had known death and hell before In Mexico and Ecuador.
Yet in his death this cut-throat wild Groaned "Mother! Mother!" like a child, While that poor innocent in man's clothes Died cursing God with brutal oaths.
Old Sergeant Smith, kindest of men, Wrote out two copies there and then Of his accustomed funeral speech To cheer the womenfolk of each.
HATE NOT, FEAR NOT.
Kill if you must, but never hate: Man is but grass and hate is blight, The sun will scorch you soon or late, Die wholesome then, since you must fight.
Hate is a fear, and fear is rot That cankers root and fruit alike, Fight cleanly then, hate not, fear not, Strike with no madness when you strike.
Fever and fear distract the world, But calm be you though madmen shout, Through blazing fires of battle hurled, Hate not, strike, fear not, stare Death out!
A RHYME OF FRIENDS. (In a Style Skeltonical)
Listen now this time Shortly to my rhyme That herewith starts About certain kind hearts In those stricken parts That lie behind Calais, Old crones and aged men And young children. About the Picardais, Who earned my thousand thanks, Dwellers by the banks Of mournful Somme (God keep me therefrom Until War ends)-- These, then, are my friends: Madame Averlant Lune, From the town of Bethune; Good Professeur la Brune From that town also. He played the piccolo, And left his locks to grow. Dear Madame Hojdes, Sempstress of Saint Fe. With Jules and Susette And Antoinette. Her children, my sweethearts, For whom I made darts Of paper to throw In their mimic show, "La guerre aux tranchees." That was a pretty play.
There was old Jacques Caron, Of the hamlet Mailleton. He let me look At his household book, "Comment vivre cent ans." What cares I took To obey this wise book, I, who feared each hour Lest Death's cruel power On the poppied plain Might make cares vain!
By Noeus-les-mines Lived old Adelphine, Withered and clean, She nodded and smiled, And used me like a child. How that old trot beguiled My leisure with her chatter, Gave me a china platter Painted with Cherubim And mottoes on the rim. But when instead of thanks I gave her francs How her pride was hurt! She counted francs as dirt, (God knows, she was not rich) She called the Kaiser bitch, She spat on the floor, Cursing this Prussian war, That she had known before Forty years past and more.
There was also "Tomi," With looks sweet and free, Who called me cher ami. This orphan's age was nine, His folk were in their graves, Else they were slaves Behind the German line To terror and rapine-- O, little friends of mine How kind and brave you were, You smoothed away care When life was hard to bear. And you, old women and men, Who gave me billets then, How patient and great-hearted! Strangers though we started, Yet friends we ever parted. God bless you all: now ends This homage to my friends.
A FIRST REVIEW.
Love, Fear and Hate and Childish Toys Are here discreetly blent; Admire, you ladies, read, you boys, My Country Sentiment.
But Kate says, "Cut that anger and fear, True love's the stuff we need! With laughing children and the running deer That makes a book indeed."
Then Tom, a hard and bloody chap, Though much beloved by me, "Robert, have done with nursery pap, Write like a man," says he.
Hate and Fear are not wanted here, Nor Toys nor Country Lovers, Everything they took from my new poem book But the flyleaf and the covers.