| We were smoking and absently humming |
| To anyone there who could play— |
| (We'd finished our tea in the Mess hut |
| Awaiting an ambulance train—) |
| Roasting chestnuts some were, while the rest, |
| Cut up toffee or sang a refrain. |
| Outside was a bitter wind shrieking— |
| (Thank God for a fug in the Mess!) |
| Never mind if the old stove is reeking |
| If only the cold's a bit less— |
| But one of them starts and then shivers |
| (A goose walking over her tomb) |
| Gazes out at the rain running rivers |
| And says to the group in the room: |
| "Just supposing the 'God of Surprises' |
| Appeared in the glow of a coal, |
| With a promise before he demises |
| To take us away from this hole |
| And do just whatever we long to do. |
| Tell me your perfect day." |
| Said one, "Why, to fly to an island |
| Far away in a deep blue lagoon; |
| One would never be tired in my land |
| Nor ever get up too soon." |
| "Every time," cried the girl darning stockings, |
| "We'd surf-ride and bathe in the sea, |
| We'd wear nothing but little blue smockings |
| And eat mangoes and crabs for our tea." |
| "Oh no!" said a third, "that's a rotten |
| Idea of a perfect day; |
| I long to see mountains forgotten, |
| Once more hear the bells of a sleigh. |
| I'd give all I have in hard money |
| For one day of ski-ing again, |
| And to see those white mountains all sunny |
| Would pretty well drive me insane." |
| Then a girl, as she flicked cigarette ash |
| Most carelessly on to the floor, |
| Had a feeling just then that her pet "pash" |
| Would be a nice car at the door, |
| To motor all day without fagging— |
| Not to drive nor to start up the thing. |
| Oh! the joy to see someone else dragging |
| A tow-rope or greasing a spring! |
| Then a fifth murmured, "What about fishing? |
| Fern and heather right up to your knees |
| And a big salmon rushing and swishing |
| 'Mid the smell of the red rowan trees." |
| So the train of opinions drifted |
| And thicker the atmosphere grew, |
| Till piercing the voices uplifted |
| Rang a sound I was sure I once knew. |
| A sound that set all my nerves singing |
| And ran down the length of my spine, |
| A great pack of hounds as they're flinging |
| Themselves on a new red-hot line! |
| A bit of God's country is stretching |
| As far as the hawk's eye can see, |
| The bushes are leafless, like etching, |
| As all good dream fences should be. |
| There isn't a bitter wind blowing |
| But a soft little southerly breeze, |
| And instead of the grey channel flowing |
| A covert of scrub and young trees. |
| The field of course is just dozens |
| Of people I want to meet so— |
| Old friends, to say nothing of cousins |
| Who've been killed in the war months ago. |
| Three F.A.N.Y.s are riding like fairies |
| Having drifted right into my dreams, |
| And they're riding their favourite "hairies" |
| That have been dead for years, so it seems. |
| A ditch that I've funked with precision |
| For seasons, and passed by in fear, |
| I now leap with a perfect decision |
| That never has marked my career. |
| For a dream-horse has never yet stumbled; |
| Far away hounds don't know how to flag. |
| A dream-fence would melt ere it crumbled, |
| And the dream-scent's as strong as a drag. |
| Of course the whole field I have pounded |
| Lepping high five-barred gates by the score, |
| And I don't seem the least bit astounded, |
| Though I never have done it before! |
| At last a glad chorus of yelling, |
| Proclaims my dream-fox has been viewed— |
| But somewhere some stove smoke is smelling |
| Which accounts for my feeling half stewed— |
| And somewhere the F.A.N.Y.s are talking |
| And somebody shouts through the din: |
| "What a horrible habit of snoring— |
| Hit her hard—wake her up—the train's in." |