TO LUCASTA, FROM THE WARS.
Perusing the epistles I devotedly indite
You long, I know, Lucasta dear, to see me as I write;
Your fancy paints my portrait framed in hectic scenes of war—
I'll try to show you briefly what my circumstances are.
Your swain is now a troglodyte; as in a dungeon deep
He who so worshipped stars and you must write and eat and sleep;
Like some swart djinnee of the mine your sunshine-loving slave
Builds airy castles, meet for two, 'neath candles in a cave.
Above, the sky is very grey, the world is very damp,
His light the sun denies by day, the moon by night her lamp;
Across the landscape soaked and sad the dull guns answer back,
And through the twilight's futile hush spasmodic rifles crack.
The papers haven't come to-day to show how England feels;
The hours go lame and languidly between our Spartan meals;
We've written letters till we're tired, with not a thing to tell
Except that nothing's doing, weather beastly, writer well.
So when you feel for us out here—as well I know you will—
Then sympathise with thousands for their country sitting still;
Don't picture battle-pieces by the lurid Press adored,
But miles and miles of Britishers, in burrows, badly bored!
