But Judas answered: "You deserve your gold;
It's not His body but His soul you've sold!"
To H. W. MASSINGHAM
RHAPSODE
Why should we sing to you of little things—
You who lack all imagination?
Why should we sing to you of your poor joys,
That you may see beauty through a poet's mind—
Beauty where there was none before?
Why should we heed your miserable opinions,
And your paltry fears?
Why listen to your tales and narratives—
Long lanes of boredom along which you
Amble amiably all the dull days
Of your unnecessary lives?
We know you now—and what you wish to be told:
That the larks are singing in the trenches,
That the fruit trees will again blossom in the spring,
That Youth is always happy;
But you know the misery that lies
Under the surface—
And we will dig it up for you!
We shall sing to you
Of the men who have been trampled
To death in the circus of Flanders;
Of the skeletons that gather the fruit
From the ruined orchards of France;
And of those left to rot under an Eastern sun—
Whose dust mingles with the sand
Of distant, strange deserts,
And whose bones are crushed against
The rocks of unknown seas;
All dead—dead,
Defending you and what you stand for.
You hope that we shall tell you that they found their
happiness in fighting,
Or that they died with a song on their lips,
Or that we shall use the old familiar phrases
With which your paid servants please you in the Press:
But we are poets,
And shall tell the truth.
You, my dear sir,
You are so upset
At being talked to in this way
That when night
Has coffin'd this great city
Beneath the folds of the sun's funeral pall,
You will have to drink a little more champagne,
And visit a theatre or perhaps a music-hall.
What you need (as you rightly say, my dear sir) is CHEERING-UP.
There you will see vastly funny sketches
Of your fighting countrymen;
And they will be represented
As those of whom you may be proud.
For they cannot talk English properly,
Or express themselves but by swearing;
Or perhaps they may be shown as drunk.
But they will all appear cheerful,
And you will be pleased;
And as you lurch amiably home, you will laugh,
And at each laugh
Another countryman will be dead!
When Christ was slowly dying on that tree—
Hanging in agony upon that hideous Cross—
Tortured, betrayed, and spat upon,
Loud through the thunder and the earthquake's roar
Rang out
Those blessed humble human words of doubt:
"My God! My God! why hast Thou forsaken Me?"
But near by was a cheerfully chattering group
Of sects,
Of Pharisees and Sadducees,
And all were shocked—
Pained beyond measure.
And they said:
"At least he might have died like a hero
With an oath on his lips,
Or the refrain from a comic song—
Or a cheerful comment of some kind.
It was very unpleasant for all of us—
But we had to see it through.
I hope people will not think we have gone too far—
Or behaved badly in any way."
There in the street below a drunken man reels home,
And as he goes
He sings with sentiment:
"Keep the home fires burning!"
And the constable helps him on his way.
But we—
We should be thrown into prison,
Or cast into an asylum,
For we want—
PEACE!
September, 1917.