Or call for Nut-Ambrosia at St. George’s,
And with a ghost-tip make the waitress rich.
My soundless feet shall fly among the runners
Through the red thunders of a Zeppelin raid,
My still voice cheer the Anti-Aircraft gunners,
The fires shall glare—but I shall cast no shade.
And if a Shadow, wading in the torrent
Of high excitement, snatch me from the riot—
(Fool that he is)—and fumble with his warrant,
And hail a hearse, and beg me to "Go quiet,"