"
So wrote they, mourning him.
So wrote they, mourning him.
War Poetry - 1914-17
.
.
"Their friends are waiting, wondering how they thrive--
Waiting a word in silence patiently. . . .
But what they said, or who their friends may be
"I cannot quite remember. . . . There were five
Dropt dead beside me in the trench--and three
Whispered their dying messages to me. . . . "
_Wilfrid Wilson Gibson_
A CROSS IN FLANDERS
In the face of death, they say, he joked--he had no fear;
His comrades, when they laid him in a Flanders grave,
Wrote on a rough-hewn cross--a Calvary stood near--
"Without a fear he gave
"His life, cheering his men, with laughter on his lips.
"
So wrote they, mourning him. Yet was there only one
Who fully understood his laughter, his gay quips,
One only, she alone--
She who, not so long since, when love was new--confest,
Herself toyed with light laughter while her eyes were dim,
And jested, while with reverence despite her jest
She worshipped God and him.
She knew--O Love, O Death! --his soul had been at grips
With the most solemn things. For _she_, was _she_ not dear?
Yes, he was brave, most brave, with laughter on his lips,
The braver for his fear!
_G. Rostrevor Hamilton_
RESURRECTION
Not long did we lie on the torn, red field of pain.
We fell, we lay, we slumbered, we took rest,
With the wild nerves quiet at last, and the vexed brain
Cleared of the winged nightmares, and the breast
Freed of the heavy dreams of hearts afar.
We rose at last under the morning star.
We rose, and greeted our brothers, and welcomed our foes.
We rose; like the wheat when the wind is over, we rose.
With shouts we rose, with gasps and incredulous cries,
With bursts of singing, and silence, and awestruck eyes,
With broken laughter, half tears, we rose from the sod,
With welling tears and with glad lips, whispering, "God. "
Like babes, refreshed from sleep, like children, we rose,
Brimming with deep content, from our dreamless repose.
And, "What do you call it? " asked one.
"Their friends are waiting, wondering how they thrive--
Waiting a word in silence patiently. . . .
But what they said, or who their friends may be
"I cannot quite remember. . . . There were five
Dropt dead beside me in the trench--and three
Whispered their dying messages to me. . . . "
_Wilfrid Wilson Gibson_
A CROSS IN FLANDERS
In the face of death, they say, he joked--he had no fear;
His comrades, when they laid him in a Flanders grave,
Wrote on a rough-hewn cross--a Calvary stood near--
"Without a fear he gave
"His life, cheering his men, with laughter on his lips.
"
So wrote they, mourning him. Yet was there only one
Who fully understood his laughter, his gay quips,
One only, she alone--
She who, not so long since, when love was new--confest,
Herself toyed with light laughter while her eyes were dim,
And jested, while with reverence despite her jest
She worshipped God and him.
She knew--O Love, O Death! --his soul had been at grips
With the most solemn things. For _she_, was _she_ not dear?
Yes, he was brave, most brave, with laughter on his lips,
The braver for his fear!
_G. Rostrevor Hamilton_
RESURRECTION
Not long did we lie on the torn, red field of pain.
We fell, we lay, we slumbered, we took rest,
With the wild nerves quiet at last, and the vexed brain
Cleared of the winged nightmares, and the breast
Freed of the heavy dreams of hearts afar.
We rose at last under the morning star.
We rose, and greeted our brothers, and welcomed our foes.
We rose; like the wheat when the wind is over, we rose.
With shouts we rose, with gasps and incredulous cries,
With bursts of singing, and silence, and awestruck eyes,
With broken laughter, half tears, we rose from the sod,
With welling tears and with glad lips, whispering, "God. "
Like babes, refreshed from sleep, like children, we rose,
Brimming with deep content, from our dreamless repose.
And, "What do you call it? " asked one.
