And what was the next thing that she
required?
War Poetry - 1914-17
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. . . .
When once again the whole sky overhead
Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shell
And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily
He stared about him, wondering. Then he fell
Into deep dreamless slumber.
* * * * *
He could see
Two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew
He was awake, and it again was day--
An August morning, burning to clear blue.
The frightened rabbit scuttled. . . .
Far away,
A sound of firing. .
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. . . .
When once again the whole sky overhead
Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shell
And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily
He stared about him, wondering. Then he fell
Into deep dreamless slumber.
* * * * *
He could see
Two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew
He was awake, and it again was day--
An August morning, burning to clear blue.
The frightened rabbit scuttled. . . .
Far away,
A sound of firing. .
