V. UNDERSTANDING
Now, when I stand in some great crowded place,
I see the souls of other women stare
Out of their eyes—And I can glimpse the care
And worry that has banished light and grace
From every life. Upon each woman-face
I see the mark of tears, the hint of prayer
That, one short year ago, had not been there—
I see what time will never quite erase!
Before you left, I did not notice eyes—
Because I knew that I might touch your hand,
I did not dream the dread that swept our land...
Ah, dear, the months have made me very wise!
Now, one with everything, I understand,
And heart meets heart and I can sympathize.
VI. THE WAKING
Now war is over and a world set free,
And youth returns, triumphant, to our land—
And dear-heart, you'll be coming back to me,
With eager lips, and tender outstretched hand!
You will be coming as you came of old,
At evening time, with laughter lilting gay;
Glad of the little things that life may hold—
And I will meet you in the self same way....
Yes, in the shadows by my oaken door,
I will be waiting as I used to wait—
And I will feel that you are come, before
I hear the clicking of the garden gate.
And, in the darkness there, my pulse will leap,
Reviving dreams that long have lain asleep!
AFTER PEACE
"I wonder what they're doin' home tonight?"
Jim said—
We sat there, in the yellow firelight,
There, in a house in France—
Some of us, maybe thinkin' of romance—
Some of us missin' buddies who was dead—
And some just dreamin'
Sorter hardly seemin'
Ter make th' dream come clear.
An' then—Jim spoke—
"I wonder what they're doin' home ternight?"
Says Jim—
An' some of us felt, well—as if we'd like
Ter smother him!
An' some of us tried hard-like not ter choke,
Th' smoke
Was pretty thick an' black!
A-thinkin' back,
Across th' ocean I could sort of see
A little house that means just all ter me
And, though nobody said a word I knew
Their thoughts was goin' on th' self-same track—
Thoughts do
Out here, in France.
Home—HOME—No wonder that we all was still—
For one of us was thinkin' of a hill,
With pine trees on it black against th' moon—
And one of us was dreaming of a town,
All drab an' brown—
An' one of us was lookin'—far an' high
Ter some one who had gone back home too soon
To that real home that is beyond the sky.
Nobody of us spoke fer quite a while—
We didn't smile—
We just sat still an' wondered when there'd be
An order for ter send us home—
Back 'crost the sea.
Th' war was won—
An' we was DONE!
We wanted faces that we loved an' knew,
An' voices too—
We sat an' watched th' dancin' fire fling
Its shadders on th' floor—
Bright shapes, an' dim.
An' then Jim coughed as if his throat was sore,
An'—"Say—let's sing!"
Says Jim.
FROM THE DECK OF A TRANSPORT
(A Returning Soldier Speaks)
I am coming back with a singing soul through the
surge of the splendid sea,
Coming back to the land called home, and the love
that used to be—
I am coming back through a flash of spray, through
a conquered tempest's hum,
I am coming back, I am coming back.... But,
God, do I want to come?
I have heard the shriek of the great shells speak to
the dawn of a flaming day;
And a growling gun when the fight was won, and the
twilight flickered gray,
I have seen men die with their chins raised high, and
a curse that was half a prayer—
I have fought alone when a comrade's groan was
tense on the blinding air.
I have tramped a road when a burning load was
strapped to my aching back,
Through miles of mud that was streaked with blood,
when my closing eyes turned back—
I have cried aloud to a heedless crowd of a God that
they could not know,
And have knelt at night when the way was bright
with a rocket's sullen glow.
I am going home through the whirling foam—home
to her arms stretched wide—
I am going back to the beaten track and the sheltered
fireside,
With gasping breath I have sneered at death, and
have mocked at a shell's swift shirr,
And safe again, through the years of pain, I am
going back—to HER!
I am coming back with a singing soul through the
surge of the splendid sea,
Coming back—BUT MY SINGING SOUL WILL NEVER BE
QUITE FREE—
For I have killed, and my heart has thrilled to the
call of the battle hum....
I am coming back to the used-to-be—But, God, do I
want to come?
TIM—MY BUNKIE
I met Tim th' other day
On Broadway;
Hadn't seem him since he fell,
Covered like with streaks of blood,
In th' Argonne's battle hell.
Tim an' me was bunkies; we
Marched together
Through th' water an' th' slime—
SUNNY FRANCE, HEY? We seen weather
That we hadn't dreamed COULD be
Anywhere or any time.
We had fought—well, hand to hand,
Over miles o' broken land,
Through th' Vesle, an' by th' Aisne,
When th' shrapnel fell like rain—
Tim an' me was bunkies—see?
Smilin' sort o' cuss was Tim;
Never seen th' beat o' him!
He could whistle when a pack
Was like lead upon his back;
He could smile with blistered feet;
Never swore at monkey meat,
Or at cooties, or th' drill;
Always laughin'—never still—
That was Tim!
Say, th' fellers loved that boy!
Chaplain said that he "was joy
All incarnate—" Sounds all right,
But th' men said he was WHITE,
That meant most to us, I'd say!
Why, we never seen th' day
When he wouldn't help a guy.
If he had a franc he'd buy
Chocolate or chow for us,
Gen'rus little smilin' cuss—
That was Tim!
When THEY got him, I can see
Even now, th' way he slipped
To th' ground beside o' me.
Red blood dripped
From his tunic an' his chin,
But he choked out, "Fellers, win!
"Me, I don't much matter, GRIN!"
Sure we had ter leave him lay;
War is always that-a-way;
An' we thought o'course he'd die.
Maybe that's the reason why
We could fight th' way we did;
Why we found th' guns THEY hid;
Why we broke their line in two,
Whistlin' a tune HE knew
All th' time we pushed 'em back,
Crowdin' on 'em whack fer whack!
I seen Tim th' other day
On Broadway;
He had lef' one arm in France,
But his eyes was all a-dance
When he seen me face t' face.
"Say," he shouts, "ain't this SOME place?
Ain't it great th' war is through?
Glad I seen it, though; ain't you?"
Smilin' sort o' little cuss,
Meetin' me without a fuss—
Tim, my bunkie, livin'!... Tim!
That's him!