Great Poems of the World War

by William Dunseath Eaton

THE LOST ONES

SOMEWHERE is music from the linnets’ bills,
And through the sunny flowers the bee wings drone,
And white bells of convolvulus on hills
Of quiet May make silent ringing blown
Hither and thither by the wind of showers,
And somewhere all the wandering birds have flown;
And the brown breath of Autumn chills the flowers.
But where are all the loves of long ago?

O little twilight ship blown up the tide,
Where are the faces laughing in the glow
Of morning years, the lost ones scattered wide?
Give me your hand, O brother; let us go
Crying about the dark for those who died.

THE FLAG SPEAKS
WALTER E. PECK

in The Hamilton Literary Magazine

RIBBONS of white in the flag of our land,
Say, shall we live in fear?
Speak! For I wait for the word from your lips
Wet with the brine of the sea-going ships;
Speak! Shall we cringe ’neath an Attila’s whips?
Speak! For I wait to hear!

“This is our word,” said the ribbons of white;
“This is the course to steer—
Peace is our haven for foul or for fair—
Won as a maiden and kept as an heir,
Peace with the sunlight of God on her hair,
Peace, with an honor clear!”

Ribbons of red in the flag of our land,
Bought for a price full dear,
Speak! For ’tis Man that is asking Man,
Churl in the centuries’ caravan,
Speak! For he waits for your bold “I can!”
Speak! For he waits to hear!

“This is our word,” said the ribbons of red,
Slowly, with gaze austere,
“War if we must in humanity’s name,
Shielding a sister from sorrow and shame;
War upon beasts with the sword and with flame!
War—till the Judge appear!”

Stars in a field of the sky’s own blue,
Light of a midnight year,
Speak! For the spirit of Man awakes,
Shoulders the cross, and his couch forsakes,
Whispers a prayer, and the long way takes,
Speak! For he waits to hear!

“This is our word,” said a star of white,
Set in the silken mere,
“Right against Might on the land, on the sea!
Little and Great are the same to me!
Only for Truth and for Liberty
Strike! For the hour is here!”

THE CALL
(France, August 1st, 1914)

ROBERT W. SERVICE

From “Rhymes of a Red Cross Man,” a book of fine poems by Mr. Service. Published and copyright, 1916, by Barse & Hopkins, New York. Special permission to insert in this book.

Far and near, high and clear,
Hark to the call of War!
Over the gorse and the golden dells,
Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells,
Praying and saying of wild farewells:
War! War! War!

High and low, all must go:
Hark to the shout of War!
Leave to the women the harvest yield;
Gird ye, men, for the sinister field;
A sabre instead of a scythe to wield.
War! Red war!

Rich and poor, lord and boor,
Hark to the blast of War!
Tinker and tailor and millionaire,
Actor in triumph and priest in prayer,
Comrades now in the hell out there,
Sweep to the fire of War!

Prince and page, sot and sage,
Hark to the roar of War!
Poet, professor and circus clown,
Chimney-sweeper and fop o’ the town,
Into the pot and be melted down
Into the pot of War!

Women all, hear the call,
The pitiless call of War!
Look your last on your dearest ones,
Brothers and husbands, fathers, sons:
Swift they go to the ravenous guns,
The gluttonous guns of War!

Everywhere thrill the air
The maniac bells of War!
There will be little of sleeping tonight;
There will be wailing and weeping tonight;
Death’s red sickle is reaping tonight:
War! War! War!

THE CRUTCHES’ TUNE
ELIZABETH R. STONER

in Everybody’s Magazine

DOWN the street, with a lilting swing,
Each so bright that never a thing
Seemed to harass, so proud were they;
One leg gone, but their hearts were gay.

Clickety clack, went the crutches’ tune.
God! How can they be brave so soon!
Brave, when I can not keep back the tears,
Thinking ahead of the crippled years.

With a rhythmic swing they passed me by,
And although, at first, I wanted to cry,
I didn’t, because on each smiling face
Was the peace of God and the pride of race.

And the splendid pair, each with one leg gone,
Swung out of sight to the crutches’ song.
And I thought I would give all my future joys
To feel just like those Canadian boys.

All night long, like an ancient rune,
Rang through my dreams the crutches’ tune.
I shall never forget, though I’m old and gray,
The song that the crutches sang that day.

THE ANXIOUS DEAD
LIEUT. COL. JOHN McCRAE

in The London Spectator

O GUNS, fall silent till the dead men hear
Above their heads the legions pressing on!
(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear
And died not knowing how the day had gone.)

O flashing muzzles, pause and let them see
The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar!
Then let your mighty chorus witness be
To them, and Cæsar, that we still make war.

Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call;
That we have sworn and will not turn aside;
That we will onward till we win or fall;
That we will keep the faith for which they died.

Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,
They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep—
Shall greet in wonderment the quiet dawn,
And in content may turn them to their sleep.

HOME
REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN

From Mr. Kauffman’s book of poems, “Little Old Belgium.” Henry Altemus Company, Publishers, Philadelphia. Copyright, 1914. Reproduced in this book by special permission.

At a pillaged hamlet near Termonde, I asked a dying peasant woman into which of the houses still standing I should assist her—which was her home? She pressed a withered hand to her bayonet-pierced side and answered: “The Germans have taken one home from me; but, without knowing it, they have given me another. I am going there now.”

MY house that I so soon shall own
Is builded in a silent place,
Not uncompanioned or alone,
But shared by almost all my race;
No landscape from its windows rolls
A picture of the earth’s increase;
But, oh, for all our stricken souls,
Within its sturdy walls is—Peace.

The other house I used to love
Before they burnt it overhead;
My slaughtered man; the memory of
Our daughter screaming in the red
Embrace of Uhlans at my door,
Her shrieks all silenced by their shout
Of drunken fury—that was war,
And my new home will shut it out.

I shall not see the German hands
That tear the baby from the breast;
I shall not hear the plundering bands
Laughing at murder: I shall rest.
There Joy shall never riot in
Nor robber sorrow find his way;
Those shutters bar the call of Sin,
And Duty has no debt to pay.

So much I shall be heedless of,
Serene, secure, dispassionate;
There is not anything to love;
There is not anything to hate.
So in my house I shall forget
All of the orgies and the strife,
And find, past memory and regret,
The Resurrection and the Life.

TO HAPPIER DAYS
MABEL McELLIOTT

in The Chicago Sunday Tribune

AGAINST the shabby house I pass each day
(The town is strange, and all so new to see)
Pink hollyhocks made friendly sport of me,
With nod and smile and endless courtesy
Enlive the lonely sameness of my way.
Slim little maids in rosy morning frocks,
They make a splash of color on the gray—
The sun so bright—a pity not to play,
But this old world is sadly work-a-day,
And I must hasten on, my hollyhocks!

I like to think that somewhere, overseas,
Perhaps in some neglected garden place,
Shy flowers from home lean out with wayward grace—
Blue iris and the valley lilies’ lace—
Reminding them of happier times than these, ...
Of happy times that are so soon to be,
When they come marching home to us—our men—
The world’s work done, the land made clean again!

YOUR LAD, AND MY LAD
RANDALL PARRISH

in The Chicago Tribune

DOWN toward the deep-blue water, marching to throb of drum,
From city street and country lane the lines of khaki come;
The rumbling guns, the sturdy tread, are full of grim appeal,
While rays of western sunshine flash back from burnished steel.
With eager eyes and cheeks aflame the serried ranks advance;
And your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.

A sob clings choking in the throat, as file on file sweep by,
Between those cheering multitudes, to where the great ships lie;
The batteries halt, the columns wheel, to clear-toned bugle-call.
With shoulders squared and faces front they stand a khaki wall.
Tears shine on every watcher’s cheek, love speaks in every glance;
For your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.

Before them, through a mist of years, in soldier buff or blue,
Brave comrades from a thousand fields watch now in proud review;
The same old Flag, the same old Faith,—the Freedom of the World—
Spells Duty in those flapping folds above long ranks unfurled.
Strong are the hearts which bear along Democracy’s advance,
As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France.

The word rings out; a million feet tramp forward on the road,
Along that path of sacrifice o’er which their fathers strode.
With eager eyes and cheeks aflame, with cheers on smiling lips,
These fighting men of ’17 move onward to their ships.
Nor even love may hold them back, nor halt that stern advance,
As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France.

“AS SHE IS SPOKE”
Boston Transcript

I’VE heard a half a dozen times
Folks call it Reims.
That isn’t right, though, so it seems,
Perhaps it’s Reims.
Poor city ruined now by flames—
Can it be Reims?—
That once was one of France’s gems—
More likely Reims.
I’ll get it right sometime, perchance;
I’m told it’s Reims.

THE SPIRES OF OXFORD
(Seen from the Train)

WINIFRED M. LETTS

From “The Spires of Oxford and Other Poems,” by Winifred M. Letts, published and copyright, 1917, by E. P. Dutton & Company, New York. Special permission to reproduce in this book.

I SAW the spires of Oxford
As I was passing by,
The gray spires of Oxford
Against a pearl-gray sky.
My heart was with the Oxford men
Who went abroad to die.

The years go fast in Oxford,
The golden years and gay,
The hoary colleges look down
On careless boys at play.
But when the bugles sounded—War!
They put their games away.

They left the peaceful river,
The cricket field, the quad,
The shaven lawns of Oxford
To seek a bloody sod—
They gave their merry youth away
For country and for God.

God rest you, happy gentlemen,
Who laid your good lives down,
Who took the khaki and the gun
Instead of cap and gown.
God bring you to a fairer place
Than even Oxford town.

THE GENTLEMEN OF OXFORD
NORAH M. HOLLAND

in Everywoman’s World

THE sunny streets of Oxford
Are lying still and bare.
No sound of voice or laughter
Rings through the golden air;
And, chiming from her belfry,
No longer Christchurch calls
The eager, boyish faces
To gather in her halls.

The colleges are empty.
Only the sun and wind
Make merry in the places
The lads have left behind.
But, when the trooping shadows
Have put the day to flight,
The Gentlemen of Oxford
Come homing through the night.

From France they come, and Flanders,
From Mons, and Marne and Aisne.
From Greece and from Gallipoli
They come to her again;
From the North Sea’s grey waters,
From many a grave unknown,
The Gentlemen of Oxford
Come back to claim their own.

The dark is full of laughter,
Boy laughter, glad and young.
They tell the old-time stories,
The old-time songs are sung;
They linger in her cloisters,
They throng her dewy meads,
Till Isis hears their calling
And laughs among her reeds.

But, when the east is whitening
To greet the rising sun,
And slowly, over Carfax,
The stars fade, one by one,
Then, when the dawn-wind whispers
Along the Isis shore,
The Gentlemen of Oxford
Must seek their graves once more.

WITH THE SAME PRIDE
THEODOSIA GARRISON

in Everybody’s Magazine

Permission to reproduce in this book

ONE star for all she had,
And in her heart
One wound—yet is she glad
For all its smart
As they are glad who bear
The pangs of birth
That a new soul and fair
May come to earth,
Seeing she, too, was one
Who from Death’s strife
Granted her first-born son
Proudly to Life.
Now with that very faith
Life justified,
She grants a son to Death
With the same pride.

ACELDAMA
DR. GEORGE F. BUTLER

in The Scoop, the Chicago Press Club’s Magazine

STILL breaks the Holy morn, to soothe the care
And labor of the world; hushed is the grove,
And overhead the vireo’s note of love
Floats like a joyful utterance of prayer.
Soft insect murmurs fill the enchanted air.
Into a fairer day earth seems to move,
And statelier thoughts lift mortal sense above
Life’s sin and pain; the sorrow and despair.
But hark! where now the noonday beams are shed
In sorrowing Europe, trembles a sound
Of thunder, and the land with dews of blood
Is drenched; while o’er the dying and the dead
Fate turns to weep o’er every pleading wound—
Can earth o’ercome the evil with the good?

But yesterday two monarchs, held in check
Like bloodhounds in the leash, broke forth before
The eyes of Christendom, and in the roar
Of lurid conflict heard not the wild shriek
Of outraged millions—now again the wreck
Of crushed humanity must strew death’s shore
With ghastly ruin crying evermore,
“Shame! Wretch of mortal form and vulture’s beak—
To ask God’s aid and Christ’s! O, hour of woe!
Cover, O night of ages, the dread birth
Of man’s Imperial hate! Let kings go down
That peoples may aspire and live and own
A holier stature, and this crimsoned earth
Drink the pure light of Freedom’s afterglow!”

Sunday in August, 1914

THE LONELY GARDEN
EDGAR A. GUEST

Copyright, 1918, by Edgar A. Guest. Special permission to reproduce in this book.

I WONDER what the trees will say,
The trees that used to share his play,
An’ knew him as the little lad
Who used to wander with his dad.
They’ve watched him grow from year to year
Since first the good Lord sent him here;
This shag-bark hick’ry, many a time,
The little fellow tried t’ climb;
An’ never a spring has come but he
Has called upon his favorite tree.
I wonder what they all will say
When they are told he’s marched away.

I wonder what the birds will say,
The swallow an’ the chatterin’ jay,
The robin an’ the kildeer, too.
For every one o’ them he knew,
An’ every one o’ them knew him,
Waited each spring t’ tell him all
They’d done and seen since ’way last fall.
He was the first to greet ’em here
An’ hoppin’ there from limb t’ limb,
As they returned from year t’ year;
An’ now I wonder what they’ll say
When they are told he’s marched away.

I wonder how the roses there
Will get along without his care,
An’ how the lilac bush will face
The loneliness about th’ place,
For ev’ry spring an’ summer he
Has been the chum o’ plant an’ tree,
An’ every livin’ thing has known
A comradeship that’s finer grown
By havin’ him from year t’ year.
Now very soon they’ll all be here,
An’ I’m wonderin’ what they’ll say
When they find out he’s marched away.

THE BRITISH ARMY OF 1914
ALFRED W. POLLARD

in Westminster Gazette

LET us praise God for the Dead: the Dead who died in our cause.
They went forth a little army: all its men were as true as steel.
The hordes of the enemy were hurled against them: they fell back, but their hearts failed not.
They went forward again and held their ground: though their foes were as five to one.
They gave time for our host to muster: the most of the men who never thought to fight.
A great host and a mighty: worthy of the men who died to gain them time.
Let us praise God for these men: let us remember them before Him all our days.
Let us care for the widows and orphans: and for the men who came home maimed.
Truly God has been with us: these things were not done without His help.
O Lord our God, be Thou still our helper: make us worthy of those who died.

MORITURI TE SALUTANT
P. H. B. L.

in The London Spectator

IN this last hour, before the bugles blare
The summons of the dawn, we turn again
To you, dear country, you whom unaware,
Through summer years of idle selfishness,
We still have loved—who loved us none the less,
Knowing the destined hour would find us men.

O thrill and laughter of the busy town!
O flower valleys, trees against the skies,
Wild moor and woodland, glade and sweeping down,
O land of our desire! like men asleep
We have let pass the years, nor felt you creep
So close into our hearts’ dear sanctities.

So, we are dreamers; but our dreams are cast
Henceforward in a more heroic mold;
We have kept faith with our immortal past.
Knights—we have found the lady of our love;
Minstrels—have heard great harmonies above
The lyrics that enraptured us of old.

The dawn’s aglow with luster of the sun
O love, O burning passion, that has made
Our day illustrious till its hours are done—
Fire our dull hearts, that, in our sun’s eclipse,
When Death stoops low to kiss us on the lips,
He still may find us singing, unafraid.

One thing we know, that love so greatly spent
Dies not when lovers die: From hand to hand
We pass the torch and perish—well content,
If in dark years to come our countrymen
Feel the divine flame leap in them again,
And so remember us and understand.

“BLIGHTY” AND “GONE WEST”

British soldiers in France have developed a terminology that is plain to them, but confusing to civilians. They speak of “Blighty,” for example, and of “Gone West.” These two terms express hopes—Blighty meaning home; in common acceptance, home for rest and recuperation. “Gone West” means gone from the east with its conflict to the refuge of death, where peace waits in the glory of sunset.

“Blighty” is of Hindu origin. British officers in South Africa who had served in India used the word, which is an Anglicized form of the Indian word “vilayti,” meaning European. Englishmen being about the only Europeans the natives knew, its application narrowed down to England only; and the army fell into a way of using it as a synonym of home. When the troops from India came into action early in the war, their wounded were sent to the nearest English great hospital, at Brighton, just across the channel. The consonance of Brighton and vilayti or Blighty was so close that these men used their own word as a matter of course, and in this way it floated into general use.

It has acquired a new sense of late. Casualties intermediate to those too severe for removal and those that can be treated in field hospitals, are sent to England—to Blighty—and are themselves called Blighty, meaning wounds that get a man home. Lieut. Siegfried Sassoon has woven the idea into a plaintively whimsical bit of verse which he calls

BLIGHTY

HE woke: the clank and racket of the train
Kept time with angry throbbings in his brain,
At last he lifted his bewildered eyes
And blinked, and rolled them sidelong; hills and skies.
Heavily wooded, hot with August haze,
And, slipping backward, golden for his gaze,
Acres of harvest.

Feebly now he drags
Exhausted ego back from glooms and quags
And blasting tumult, terror, hurtling glare,
To calm and brightness, havens of sweet air.

He sighed, confused; then drew a cautious breath;
This level journeying was no ride through death.
“If I were dead,” he mused, “there’d be no thinking—
Only some plunging underworld of sinking,
And hueless, shifting welter where I’d drown.”
Then he remembered that his name was Brown.

But was he back in Blighty? Slow he turned,
Till in his heart thanksgiving leaped and burned.
There shone the blue serene, the prosperous land,
Trees, cows and hedges; skipping these he scanned,
Large, friendly names that change not with the year,
Lung Tonic, Mustard, Liver Pills and Beer.

Hugh Pendexter, in Adventure Magazine, says “going west,” as used by the men overseas to mean death, is of peculiarly American origin. The Karok Indians of California believed the spirit of the good Karok went to the “happy western land.” The Cherokee myths picture the west as the “ghost country,” the twilight land where go the dead. The Shawnee tell of the boy who “traveled west” to find his sister in the spirit land. The Chippewa believes the spirit “followed a wide, beaten path toward the west.” The spirit world of the Fox Indians is at the setting of the sun. And so on, in the theology of many Indian nations we find the West as the storied abode of the great majority—who have passed over.

The phrase traces back to the Œdipus Tyrannus of Sophocles:

Toward the Western shore
Soul after soul is known to take her flight.

Its later significance is tenderly sung by Eleanor Jewett in The Chicago Tribune: