| I’ve tinkered at my bits of rhymes
|
| In weary, woeful, waiting times;
|
| And doleful hours of battle-din
|
| Ere yet they brought the wounded in;
|
| Through vigils of the fateful nights
|
| In lousy barns by candle-light;
|
| And dug-outs, sagging and aflood
|
| On stretchers stiff and bleared with blood;
|
| By ragged grove, by ruined road
|
| By hearths accursed where love abode
|
| By broken altars, blackened shrines
|
| I’ve tinkered at my bits of rhymes
|
| I’ve solaced me with scraps of song
|
| The desolated ways along:
|
| Through sickly fields all shrapnel-sown
|
| And meadows reaped by death alone;
|
| By blazing cross and splintered spire
|
| By headless Virgin in the mire;
|
| By gardens gashed amid their bloom
|
| By guttered grave, by shattered tomb;
|
| Beside the dying and the dead
|
| Where rocket green and rocket red
|
| In trembling pools of poising light
|
| With flowers of flame festoon the night
|
| Ah me! |
| by what dark ways of wrong
|
| I’ve cheered my heart with scraps of song
|
| So here’s my sheaf of war-won verse
|
| And some is bad, and some is worse
|
| And if at times I curse a bit
|
| You needn’t read that part of it;
|
| For through it all like horror runs
|
| The red resentment of the guns
|
| And you yourself would mutter when
|
| You took the things that once were men
|
| And sped them through that zone of hate
|
| To where the dripping surgeons wait;
|
| And wonder too if in God’s sight
|
| War ever, ever, can be right
|
| Yet may it not be, crime and war
|
| But efforts misdirected are
|
| And if there’s good in war and crime
|
| There may be in my bits of rhyme
|
| My songs from out the slaughter mill:
|
| So take or leave them as you will |