Against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree, His scarlet tunic burns; And livelier than the green sap’s mantling glee The spring fire tingles through him headily As quivering he turns
And stammers out the old amazing tale Of youth and April weather; While she, with half-breathed jests that, sobbing, fail, Sits, tight-lipped, quaking, eager-eyed and pale Beneath her purple feather.
He’s gone. I do not understand. I only know That as he turned to go And waved his hand, In his young eyes a sudden glory shone: And I was dazzled by a sunset glow, And he was gone.
He’d even have his joke While we were sitting tight, And so he needs must poke His silly head in sight To whisper some new jest Chortling. But as he spoke A rifle cracked ... And now God knows when I shall hear the rest!
“Two rows of cabbages, Two of curly-greens, Two rows of early peas, Two of kidney-beans.”
That’s what he is muttering, Making such a song, Keeping other chaps awake, The whole night long.
Both his legs are shot away, And his head is light; So he keeps on muttering All the blessed night:
“Two rows of cabbages, Two of curly-greens, Two rows of early peas, Two of kidney-beans.”
Out of the sparkling sea I drew my tingling body clear, and lay On a low ledge the livelong summer day, Basking, and watching lazily White sails in Falmouth Bay.
My body seemed to burn Salt in the sun that drenched it through and through, Till every particle glowed clean and new And slowly seemed to turn To lucent amber in a world of blue....
I felt a sudden wrench— A trickle of warm blood— And found that I was sprawling in the mud Among the dead men in the trench.
She must go back, she said, Because she’d not had time to make the bed. We’d hurried her away So roughly ... and for all that we could say, She broke from us, and passed Into the night, shells falling thick and fast.
I sometimes wonder if it’s really true I ever knew Another life Than this unending strife With unseen enemies in lowland mud; And wonder if my blood Thrilled ever to the tune Of clean winds blowing through an April noon Mile after sunny mile On the green ridges of the Windy Gile.
I do not fear to die ’Neath the open sky, To meet death in the fight Face to face, upright.