To SIEGFRIED SASSOON
THE MODERN ABRAHAM
His purple fingers clutch a large cigar—
Plump, mottled fingers, with a ring or two.
He rests back in his fat armchair. The war
Has made this change in him. As he looks through
His cheque-book with a tragic look he sighs:
"Disabled Soldiers' Fund" he reads afresh,
And through his meat-red face peer angry eyes—
The spirit piercing through its mound of flesh.
They should not ask me to subscribe again!
Consider me and all that I have done—
I've fought for Britain with my might and main;
I make explosives—and I gave a son.
My factory, converted for the fight
(I do not like to boast of what I've spent),
Now manufactures gas and dynamite,
Which only pays me seventy per cent.
And if I had ten other sons to send
I'd make them serve my country to the end,
So all the neighbours should flock round and say:
"Oh! look what Mr. Abraham has done.
He loves his country in the elder way;
Poor gentleman, he's lost another son!"
1917.
THE TRAP
The world is young and green.
Its woods are golden beneath the May-time sun;
But within its trap of steel the rabbit plunges
Madly to and fro.
It will bleed to death
Slowly,
Slowly,
Unless there is some escape.
Why will not someone release it?
And presently a kindly passer-by
Stoops down.
The rabbit's eye glints at him—
Gleaming from the impenetrable obscurity of its prison.
He stoops and lifts the catch
(He cannot hold it long, for the spring is heavy).
The rabbit could now be free,
But it does not move;
For from the darkness of its death-hutch
The world looks like another brightly baited trap.
So, remaining within its steel prison,
It argues thus:
"Perhaps I may bleed to death,
But it will probably take a long time,
And, at any rate,
I am secure
From the clever people outside.
Besides, if I did come out now
All the people who thought I was a lion
Would see, by the trap-mark on my leg,
That I am only an unfortunate rabbit,
And this might promote disloyalty among the children.
When the clamp closed on my leg
It was a ruse
To kill me.
Probably the lifting of it betrays the same purpose!
If I come out now
They will think they can trap rabbits
Whenever they like.
How do I know they will not snare me
Again next year?
Besides, it looks to me from here..."
But the catch drops down,
For the stranger is weary.
From within the hutch
A thin stream of blood
Trickles on to the grass
Outside,
And leaves a brown stain on its brightness.
But the dying rabbit is happy,
Saying:
"I knew it was only a trap!"
April, 1918.