Yet one night, while the guns still roared and flashed,
His spirit left his body; left the earth
Which he had loved in sad, disastrous days,
And sped to heav’n amid the glittering stars
And the white splendor of the quiet moon.
One instant—and a hundred years rushed by!
And he, a new immortal, found his way
Among the great celestial hills of God.
Then suddenly one memory of earth
Flashed like a meteor’s flame across his mind.
One instant—and another hundred years!
And even the dream of that poor little place
Which he had known was lost in greater spheres
Through which he whirled; and old remembrances
Were but as flecks of dust blown down the night;
And nothing mattered, save that suns and moons
Swung in the ether for unnumbered worlds
High, high above the pebble of the earth.
THE SONG OF THE GUNS
HERBERT KAUFMAN
From Mr. Kaufman’s book of poems, “The Hell Gate of Soissons.” T. Fisher Unwin, Publisher’s (all rights reserved), London, England. Special permission to reproduce in this book.
HEAR the guns, hear the guns!
High above the splutter-sputter
Of the Maxim, and the stutter
Of the rifles, hear them shrieking.
See the searching shells come sneaking,
Softly speaking,
Slyly seeking,
Thirsting, bursting, shrapnel-leaking
Where the ranks are thickest—tearing
Mighty gaps among the daring.
Charging horse and rider stumble,
And brigades fall in a jumble;
Earthworks crumble,
Standards tumble,
And the driving bayonets fumble,
But unsated,
Still the hated
Cannon thunder, unabated.
Hear them rumble,
Hear them grumble,
Hear the old song of the guns!
“Send your sons,
Send your sons,
All your near ones,
All your dear ones;
Give us food!
Give us food!
Give the strongest of your brood.
Let us feed!
Let us feed!
On the bravest that you breed.
Give us meat,
Give us meat,
Oh, the blood of Valor’s sweet!”
And the women make reply:
Ah, the glory of the lie—
“Look, no tear is in our eye.
Rather would we see you die
For your country, than stand by.
Rather would we boast to tell
To your children that you fell,
Than to have you lurk and sell
Honor for a coward’s breath;
Better far the soldier’s death.
Go and battle for the land.
Make a stand!
Make a stand!
Go and join the dauntless band.
Take a hand!
Take a hand!
Count not us—God will provide!”
Thus the women in their pride
Mask their hearts—their anguish hide.
Thus the mother and the bride
Bid their men to march and ride
To the guns,
Hungry guns,
Rumbling, grumbling for their sons.
Thus the women ever give,
Give their nearest, dearest ones
At the summons of the guns.
What is war to men—they die.
But the widowed women, aye,
To the end alone, must live.