The trouble is, things happen much too quick; Up jump the Boches, rifles thump and click, You stagger, and the whole scene fades away: Even good Christians don't like passing straight From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime Of golden harps ... and ... I'm not well to-day ... It's a queer time.
When a dream is born in you With a sudden clamorous pain, When you know the dream is true And lovely, with no flaw nor stain, O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much.
Dreams are like a bird that mocks, Flirting the feathers of his tail. When you seize at the salt-box, Over the hedge you'll see him sail. Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff: They watch you from the apple bough and laugh.
Poet, never chase the dream. Laugh yourself, and turn away. Mask your hunger; let it seem Small matter if he come or stay; But when he nestles in your hand at last, Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.
I WONDER WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE DROWNED?
Look at my knees, That island rising from the steamy seas! The candle's a tall lightship; my two hands Are boats and barges anchored to the sands, With mighty cliffs all round; They're full of wine and riches from far lands.... _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_
I can make caves, By lifting up the island and huge waves And storms, and then with head and ears well under Blow bubbles with a monstrous roar like thunder, A bull-of-Bashan sound. The seas run high and the boats split asunder.... _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_
The thin soap slips And slithers like a shark under the ships. My toes are on the soap-dish--that's the effect Of my huge storms; an iron steamer's wrecked. The soap slides round and round; He's biting the old sailors, I expect.... _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_
The bugler sent a call of high romance-- "Lights out! Lights out!" to the deserted square. On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer: "God, if it's _this_ for me next time in France, O spare the phantom bugle as I lie Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns, Dead in a row with other broken ones, Lying so stiff and still under the sky-- Jolly young Fusiliers, too good to die ..." The music ceased, and the red sunset flare Was blood about his head as he stood there.