[To France—1917]
[The Pacifist]
[Battle Hymn of ’17]
PART III—OTHER VERSES
[My Sapphire]
[The Twins]
[On Sending My Book to an English Friend]
[Immortal Keats]
[To a Little Girl]
[God]
[The Golden Day]
[Notes]
MY COMRADES IN THE RANKS.
You chose no easy Service,
No safe job, friends of mine,
But the mud of the shell-torn, trenches
And the foremost battle-line.
No camouflage patriotism—
Though you had from a wealth to choose
But the wicked work of No Man’s Land,
Filling a man’s-size shoes.
You didn’t say you wouldn’t play
If you got no shoulder bars—
You even placed your Country
Above a general’s stars:
For shocking, very shocking,
You didn’t give a damn
About your “social status,”
When you fought for Uncle Sam.
Friends of mine, friends of mine,
I’ve shared your toil and tears—
Your dangers and your little woes,
When days were turned to years.
I may not make them understand
The things that you have done,
But God bless you and God keep you—
Every blessed mother’s son.
PART I. TRENCH BALLADS.
TRENCHES.
Trenches dripping, wet and cold—
Trenches hot and dry—
Long, drab, endless trenches
Stretching far and nigh.