After the Day Raine Bennett UC-NRLF 273 MSS GIFT OF I ^ o "7 . AFTER THE DAY After the Day A Collection of Post- War Impressions By Raine Bennett With an Introduction by George Douglas Literary Editor of the San Francisco Chronicle Boston The Stratford Co., Publishers 1920 cje^-i^ *l, l*\o 7. Copyright 1920 The STRATFORD CO., Publishers Boston, Mass. The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A. Dedication OMEMORIED Thebes! Behold what frac tured pile Uprears its crumbling arches to the sky! Around forgotten plinths gaunt shadows lie Traced by the gloaming moon. A columned aisle Remains, bereft of frieze and peristyle All else is gone. Through wild mimosas sigh The vagrant winds, and far, an ibis cry Awakes the sinuous liquescent Nile. Here men have sought obliterated golds, Have wooed the ancient airs, and held their sway Whereat I closed mine eyes to silent molds And wandering in fancy, linked Today With Yesterday. Then all the Future holds Rushed by me like a dream and passed away. 417553 Introduction WHATEVEE the reader may discover in the poetry of Raine Bennett, he cannot fail to recognize a pronounced individuality and a singular aptitude for dramatic expression. In the detail of form Bennett is not conventional, but his unconventionally in manner is the re sult of a symphonic cast of mind rather than the pose of a deliberate rebel. Sometimes he ap pears to be merely improvising with words, but in a few moments we have caught the cen tral theme and are amazed at its magnetic sincerity. What does it matter whether the verse be free or "fettered," "new" or "old" if the singer have both song and sincerity? It is the irritating pose, the trivial affectation of so many "free verse" bards, rather than their form against which the average reader rebels. Free verse begins, for some readers, with the suspi cion of being an affectation, though as a matter of fact there is just as much and possibly more affectation in those formal lines the "music" vn INTRODUCTION of which conceals so much. Free verse is more transparent, and it is the merit of Bennett that what we see in his work is always worth the seeing. " Always there is some idea expressed through the medium of an emotion, and if the poet is more dramatic than lyric, it is because he is picturing rather than singing about war. He has written several dramas, and as a Californian has the distinction of being the first dramatist of his state to achieve the production of a manu script at the Greek Theatre, Berkeley. It was a Bedouin tragedy entitled * The Talisman and was well received by critics and the public at this, its second presentation, having been first produced by literati of Carmel at the "Forest Theatre. Another play, the South Sea Idol, was given its initial production two years be fore at the Columbia Theatre in San Fran cisco. He distinguished himself while a stu dent of law at Stanford University, by partici pating in the literary plays given by various dramatic societies there, and later interpreted roles in "Fire," an aboriginal drama by Mary Austin, and "Runymede" by William Greer Har rison. The latter apostrophised Bennet s charac- viii INTRODUCTION terization of King John in a dedicated poem. In addition, Bennett has lectured on the drama, paying special attention to the one-act play. His most recent work is included in this volume. Mention is made of his dramatic experiences because of their bearing upon this collection of verse "After the Day," which he aptly des cribes as a series of post-war impressions, writ ten from the psychological viewpoint of a sol dier permanently maimed and confronted with a world of the physically fit, with whom he must continue to be a competitor." These "after the day" or "nocturnal" impressions were all written with a view to their being read aloud, and as dramatic reading they take on a singularly magnetic quality. The war did not make Bennett a poet, but it revealed the poet in him, and to himself, as much as to his readers. He saw things so clearly and felt so strongly he wanted to set everything down precisely as seen and felt. His work took the form of free verse not because he looked upon that form as final, but because he did not want to leave anything of importance out of the picture or to put in anything merely to fill. ix INTRODUCTION He wanted the perfect word, whether it hap pened to be a dactyl or a spondee, hence his "free" or new verse. If the thing seen or the thing felt is more to you than the conventional melody of words, you will more than admire the poetry of Baine Bennett. This does not mean that he is indifferent to the music of words. On the contrary you will find line after line construed with perfect ear, and in fact the melody is broken only when the thought or emotion so takes possession of him that he refuses to vary the expression to fit the cadence. The poem of the series which is entitled " Peace" was originally printed in the San Francisco Chronicle. As a result of its publica tion quite a number of people wrote offering to care wholly or in part for the poet s material wants! The story of the wounded soldier had moved them to the limit of their generosity. It was praised by Witter Bynner, and other poets. The remaining themes are nearly all on war, and all have distinctive merit as the earnest song of a new singer. In some of them, Bennett gives quite a new meaning to free verse, for he INTRODUCTION shows that it can be free to ~be perfectly beauti ful, melodic, and sometimes even pretty, though strength is his dominant note. GEORGE DOUGLAS, Literary Editor of the San Francisco Chronicle. XI Contents Peace . . . . . . 1 Baoul s Last Nocturne . . . . 11 The Shell Crater . ,. ... 23 Before Cambrai . . . . . 27 Le Poilu . . . . ... 29 Departure . . . .31 Antoine, the Birdman . . . .33 Found in a Diary 40 Soldier, Answer Me! .... 45 Pere Lachaise ...... 48 Croix De Guerre 55 Wounded 57 A Whisper at the Gate . ... 59- The Albatross 61 Domesday ....... 63 Amerongen Castle . . . .66 The Sniper . . . . . . 69 Passing in the Sun . . . . . 72 The Aviator . . . . . .74 Outriders of the Night .... 77 Le Strynge 81 Anarchy .... . . . 83 xiii CONTENTS Post Mortem ... 85 ...... 86 Coup d Etat ..... 87 De Profundis .... 88 The Great War ... 89 MISCELLANEOUS I Saw a Dead Man ..... 100 On Duty ....... 10 2 In a Belgian Prison ..... 105 In The Shadows . . . 106 A Cashmere Song . . 107 xiv Peace SHOULD poets be sent to battle Drafted into service with a gun, Or mustered out for service with a pen? That is the question old friends are asking, And I am yearning to answer them, I who lost My legs in Alsace, and my heart in Lorraine. No one is unkind to me ; which I take to be A fine deference, because in Lille I was a prisoner of War. As though a dream of childhood had been anticipated, I am allowed by my officials To watch a flock of Merino sheep On a wide farm in the West While idling the hours I trace verses On the inside of wrappers embellishing cans Of Bordeaux mackerel, caught in Monterey. After this manner I strive, if ever so vainly, To unburden my mind of its terrors, Seeking to forget the scars inflicted on me Because I fought for my Country. [1] AFTER THE DAY A quaint adage used by my ancestors read : "A poet is born, not made " But that was long before the war. I, a mutilated soldier, abandoned by all Former associations, tent pals, canteen loungers, Officers of the guard, patrols, and Durham Have attained the plains for solace, and am glad ! For I was once a yokel from the hills With a penchant for rhyme and Latin meters, So they have carried my body to this sheltering Laurel in the glen, and have equipped me With the crooked staff of a shepherd Even a poet without legs Has his usefulness ! The fragrant airs in dalliance Blow over miles of May What soldier of this newer day Would not follow them, these little winds, These whispers from the Infinite that formerly Meant nothing, but now have many voices ? See the hogs, contented and at ease! Do you think there is no joy in observing Life, instead of Death 1 [2] AFTER THE DAY There are horses at pasture, and cows grazing What do they know of explosives ? Yet how many of these lie rotting On the fields of the fleur-de-lis ! In the distance, On the plowlands a whistling teamster Guides his sorrels, and across the fallow A jackass brays! What is more ridiculous than that jester, Whose ears, and strange noises, vainglorious laughs And useless prancings are so Hohenzollern ? With all his legs, who would change places with him? Not I ! His entertainments do not appeal to me I would rather remain a poet. When fragile violets are plucked from their shadows in the forest, Knowing full well they will die in the sunlight, Do you think less of them for their inability To keep pace with the garish day? This is my lonely predicament. May I feel how ever, On the one theory that flowers about to die Are nevertheless welcome [3] AFTER THE DAY My thoughts may please you, like violets in a vase During their little hour! Yet were not all these particulars in my land scape Meant for you and me ? When the fresh blossoms of clover, dew- besprent and young, Upturn their purple harvest to the skies and glowing insects, Do they not smile at heaven, And at you and me, as well as the butterflies ? But yesterday a troop of bees Maneuvered across the perfumed grasses Laden with the spoils of their campaign And I had wished all booty Were as sweet ! When a lark with melodious acclaim Soars through the dawning clouds, Is it not to awaken me, as well as you ? These are my consolations ! Here, watching silent acres Verdant from the tears of stars, [4] AFTER THE DAY And cool meadows reaching from me Through emerald seas, Sheep browsing, and the far murmur of reeds By a winding river All of these are better awards for service Than a medal of bronze, Or a special dispensation from the Pope. They were better, and meant more, Before I enlisted. I had my feet, Which I remember were considered necessary at the time Encased in strong military boots ; my jeans were Thrown aside by the sergeant. Thereupon a smart uniform Was fitted to my figure. The sunburned, straw sombrero Now protecting my ears became a felt hat with tassels, And I was dubbed a recruit, Which is the nucleus of a soldier. So my dreams Of threshing hay, and the golden glory of the moon [5] AFTER THE DAY Rising at dayfall over burnished waves of grain Were shattered by deracinating cannon, And "shell shock" has eclipsed the vision of old summers. I saw a raven fly over sleeping battlefields In the gray mists of dawn, and there was a glow On its wing, as the passing night Draped in malignant shadows the last vestige Of its flight. I shuddered when this occurred, Because it forboded the dark couriers of the Future. All the rhymes of my boyhood rattled together Like the discord of foreign brasses, The bugler no longer tongued decasyllabically, And I became a strange creature in the ranks Continuing to fall out of step Without apparent reason; If I had said The cause was in my soul They would have laughed at me, And called it a "pun" Which, in literature, is perpetrated by a slacker. [6] AFTER THE DAY I have been in service, deep into it, Forgetting all but my country, and risking all As I would do again ; but I have seen The body of a poet in Flanders, and I know There were words stopped in his mouth That could herald peace, and eloquence Died in his veins, with beauty s vaster meanings. There were exaltations unattained, achievements locked On his pale lips, and songs ineffable Forever stilled. I am aware of this, for there was a whirr As of ghostly pinions heard thundering afar By several comrades, when they approached his remains Clinging to the wire entanglements Above our trenches. A soldier who has fought Against the offensive called Death comes face to face With Poetry, as a spirit does its Maker. If you doubt these morals wrought from No Man s Land, Let the gaunt survivors of battlefields Tell their stories ! [7] AFTER THE DAY Ah, there shall be heartrending pity then, Commingled with that anguish all animals must feel When hunted down, for no wrong-doing Save the insolence of Life. There shall be mystery, and romance, Grand sacrifice, and martyrdom recounted, And what empyreal glory men experience In the flying havoc of war ! Let the wounded tell of their bleeding, And the hush of silence closing in on them ; Speak to a convalescent aviator, for instance, A birdman who has heard The eagle scream his triumph from the skies Ask him to recall the long afternoons, bound in cotton and gauze, The gassed maniacs crying in cots, And those faithful soothsayers, the nurses, Moving so carefully, so quietly ! When a nurse smiles One never knows whether it is a rule Of the Red Cross, or the Eternal Feminine Striving to conceal a multitude of griefs, Knowing there is no room for laughter In all that desolation. [8] AFTER THE DAY Would that the splendid dead Could divulge their adventures Reveal the immutable secrets of God, And dwell no more in unknown, platonic heights ! There were fine tales made for children, On the flaming fields of France : Tales of cutthroats, and merciless barbarism, Of robbery, pillage and destruction ; Yarns of strange murders committed at sea By men who strove to win great wars By drowning mothers, and speeding infants heavenward Before their time. Then will follow glorious narrative, And how most famous Admirals forbade The encircling oceans to these brigands of the deep, While strong, sabred veterans, scarred by many trials, Hurled millions of crusaders over there ! I have heard the lusty, silver shouting Of a regiment cruising Eastward: "Free dom!" [9] AFTER THE DAY 0, that was a battle cry; and I was there, All of me, to make the world safe for Democracy ! Now come the last scenes of all: Their settings are of gray sunsets, With streaks of red, to light the naves Of famous cathedrals, and cities old in story. Drifts of smoke roll through the village streets Commingling the secret souls of men Like incense curling from twilight tapers Into the mauve beyond ! Thus you will have Before your mind s eye a picture No artist would dare to paint, and no writer Shall ever describe Only a wounded soldier screaming in the dark Has ever seen these things, and you, and you, "Will be able to see them only in his eyes ! So all shall come to know some day That physical deprivation Is not too heavy a burden to carry For having gone over the trenches In France ! L Envoi Even a poet without legs Has his usefulness. [10] AFTEE THE DAY Raoul s Last Nocturne MUSICIANS ! Let me tell you the story of Eaoul The violinist Gun-wadder of the 144th Field Artillery The good soldier, The violinist ! It was late In the Argonne forest, And he was playing a quaint air of Persia ; Surely, you remember it : "0 moon of my delight, that knows no wane " The trees drew closer While we listened, And the wood- wind s breath Fell languishing In the arms of the shadowed branches. Arias from many an outlander s retreat Lulled the gloaming AFTER THE DAY With dulcet cadences of peace, And the sun had gone In gorgeous conflagration Behind the smoking battlements of France. He raised his antique instrument and bow, Standing at ease against the barricade; And we, so tired of strife Were gathered there To hear the strange tales Fashioned by his Art. Still ! A moment hesitant, And then on slow wings lilting By wistful strains And semblances obscure He struck some prelude Kindred to the hour, And drew a thousand visions from the Dark. Awhile he stood, Improvising themes on happy valleys, Pastorals, and sylvan inference, When hold! The trees Were those the trees of Argonne ? Nay? Then, say [12] AFTER THE DAY Whence came that fragrance of Sierran air, That westering, deep draught from overseas? Before our eyes The purple ranges loomed, And snow-clad mountains thrilling to the stars ! We found ourselves in canyons Deep, and crimsoning aflame ; Were lost on dim slopes Where the cedar grieves And roamed beneath the confidence of pines ! We heard the primal moon-song of coyotes, Saw gaunt shadows Creeping on the mesa Saw camp fires Gleaming through the dusk. . . . Heard the requiem of rain Across the sage ! We saw him swayed Through those insistencies Conferred by Self, impassionate and sad ; His was a message [13] AFTER THE DAY Stirred in lyric shades For us alone It was like the presence Of some furtive Soul Searching the wide, white heavens For its mate, And all the plaintive yearning Of the strings, Rose in answer To our lonely hearts ! We lived, and died, And lo. . . . awake in bourns Beyond all present understanding: We hear the early carols of Aidenn Hear the matins Of orioles homing in Eolian dawns. Lydian measures, Heedless of the moment And melodies exotic Follow fugues Hushed by the gloom of Ages; [14] AFTER THE DAY We are in silent wonder of that man Who can with subtle fingers And his bow Draw poignant meanings From the wilderness. On meads untenanted By graves Peal chords of April s green gladness! Where the harvest, weary ox-wain creaked, Our swart artillery Scars the tongueless sod; And in and out their wheels Dark poppies blow And over them Marauding birds go by! Pandean pipes Forgotten in the glades Rejoice once more Through the drear solitude of Argonne. And we stay Like a gathering of Bacchanalian gods Hearing the wine-songs Of old Arcady! [15] AFTER THE DAY Slender reeds In favored places wrought, Spoke of a spell Transmuted by the elves That men may seek forever To no end ; So touched by lips All wanton wooed, and wild, They make young lilies Tremulous at eve, When every lolling lotus On the lake Yearns for somnolent dews! We heard soft flutes Ineffable, and sweet, And trolls their pretty signals trumpeting; Satyrs insubordinate, and sprites Laughing unduly And many gnomes cavorting out of ranks! We heard the dryad s intimate tattoo, And sylphic fifes Blown faintly from the hills. . . . We heard their tiny timbrels At dayfall, [16] AFTER THE DAY So seeking, By articulated wile and rustic whim, To captivate the iris-hidden streams With murmurous delight To fascinate Those vales of startled Echo Where tremble and begins The intimation of Elysian Song. Adagios complained from dawn to dawn Against the rude reluctances of Night; There too, Andantes Holding trysts celestially remote Sung with their certain diffidence, aspiring Toward the pale ports of the Pleides. While over all, in psens, on, and on, Like some vast oratorio The exultant orbs Of Evening communed In far, illusive music Of the Spheres. So did the bleak, unhallowed wood Avail surcease enchanting From the gyves of war, [17] AFTER THE DAY And we were lead by vagrant Genius To those far heights That mightily divide The sightless from the Sight. We were his true, attentive audience The while he wove A myriad rhapsodies Into the loom of one Tonality; Calling rare voices From the East, And North, and South, And West, in motives blent From out the singing gardens of the World. " What was that, Sergeant? "Nothing, you fool! Let him play! Some leaves Scattered by a random shot; The guns of our friend, the Enemy Are speeding Dispatch bearers to Mars! Never mind Let him play!" [18] AFTER THE DAY Then in a surge of minor harmony It seemed his bow swept suddenly to tears We caught The secret pleadings of salt tides, And that sadness In the ocean s elegies; So came dreams Holy, And glimpses Lost in sleep Of ancient galleons On the farthest main, Shrouded argosies At anchor The surf booming On shores unknown. . . . Coasts storm-crumbled, And cliffs Where the gray morn breaks ; The heave of an offing Swelling, sweeping ; Combers crashing, Foaming, flowing [19] AFTER THE DAY Then mist-ridden crests, And a drifting spar . . . And the sea s face Flung with spray! You who have prayed When the mad typhoon Gnashed its teeth In the biting gale You who have heard Most tortured waves Cry out to the frenzied skies You would have plunged Through those wild waters, Wilder yet with flood Of Sound tempestuous; You would have understood, somehow, While he played. . . . You who have known The rimrock ways, And the trails of the unbought West Who have staked your bivouac In the heart of the hills, or have closed Your lids on the desert s loneliness, And the long twilight, on the cherished plains [20] AFTER THE DAY In the trove of Youth s lost years You would have thought Of those untrammeled haunts So far from Argonne (Christ, how far!) And yet so near To something in your souls; You would have listened While he played, Your lips mute and your throat In sorrow locked While the eyes of comrades And your own Brimmed full with memories! "Sergeant! What has happened? Good God! My shoulder. . . . Blood . . . nothing . . . but . . . blood . "Raoul! Where are you? Raoul "Shut up, you fool! He was interrupted By one of Fritz s shells; I found his helmet [21] AFTER THE DAY A few moments ago And here, You may have it A fragment Of his fiddle!" [22] AFTER THE DAY The Shell Crater I HAD been wandering Through the forest of Epinoy And in the wild, mid region of my walk I paused beside a shell crater. It had filled With turgid downpour, drainage, and the dew From silent mounds, unnumbered and unnamed. It resembled the visage of a tarn, Over which a cold moon rising, traced Most strange, fantastic figures; And the trees of Epinoy Sighed close to the mouth of the crater. A voice Fell through the wistful wood. It was indistinct, And not from the branches; It was low, Like the lament of a spirit. . . . [23] AFTER THE DAY Long I paced, long In the drifting mists, Alone, in the Silence. Nothing Was distinguishable there, Nothing beyond a desolation On the water Nothing save those figures, made fantastic By the moon s saffronic glaze. Then I glanced Above the crater And saw that the trees of Epinoy Swayed with a dark unrest. Whereat, I concluded the voice Was a sadness on the wind; Or some sylvan grief Such as woodlands know When the last leaves die When the fronds fall, fluttering From their gnarled arms! But the sigh continued, like the voice Of a spirit lamenting. [24] AFTER THE DAY Finally, the surface of the tarn Stirred by the late insistence of the breeze - Wrinkled its visage And danced, with a melancholy rhythm, Almost in trend, I fancied To the whisper of its shadows; While the moon, shone solemnly And cold! Then a far thunder reverberated It was nocturnal canonading From artillerists unknown Swiftly, the red-tongued lightning Licked skyward, its sudden prongs Stabbed the trees of Epinoy And their limbs, their bereaved branches Groaned from wounds inflicted by the storm; And there was a multitude of sighs. Leaning forward, striving to discern What sorrow upward welled From the crater To my terror, I beheld The haggard features of a soldier. His drenched hair [25] AFTER THE DAY Lapped by the undulations, Writhed, like kelp around his forehead; And the lips were parted As though his soul had flown While struggling to articulate Some unrequited prayer! A glimpse And the chill waters of the tarn Closed over him forever. The surface Resumed its sullen languor The winds Abated utterly, and the trees Of Epinoy communed no more, Save in the low, least murmurs Of a forest. I had been wandering, And in the wild, mid region of my walk This incident occurred; Yet so surely as God Lets me tell you, I saw naught but mine own reflection In the crater! [26] AFTEE THE DAY Before Cambrai A SHARPSHOOTER, before the taking of Cambrai Aimed carefully at my silhouette, while I stood On sentinel duty, under the stars. His bullet tore through one eye and out of the other So now, when lately the moon Mounts heavenward, and the myriad constella tions Look down from their undaunted heights, I wonder if they see, in that vast darkness of theirs, Any more than one whose individual night Has closed him from them forever ! I have walked forth on June mornings, When the great orb of the Sun Observed every idle cloud in passing; I have turned my face up to those aerial meadows, [27] AFTER THE DAY Marveling if all the vague translucencies of Day Were akin to them, as utter blackness Is to me, or if the dews of dawn Are ever like the blindness of tears ! Yet to one who dwells in shadow There comes, sooner or later, A reverence for the depths of things; And I have had such visions That few with eyes can know Learned of the inner sources that illume, And soothed my hours with opalescent dreams! There is a steadfast gleaming In the lightness of my heart, And I have seen the beacon of my Soul. [28] AFTER THE DAY Le Poilu DRENCHED to the skin, knee-deep in mud, Disheartened, all but dead This was the condition, most pitiable and true, Of a small detachment at the Marne. Among them, yet not one of a group, But standing aside (as I have noticed heroes do), Was a young, French guardsman. They were anxious, those exhausted defenders, And their faces twitched from the torment of suspense ; Some were chilled by long exposure, Others flushed with fever, All were anxious, these bleeding patriots, And most of all, the young French guardsman, As he stood in the gathering shadows Watching every slight maneuvre of the enemy Through a space between the trench-sacks. After a lapse of silence, he whispered something : It was in no way a signal, And would have aroused little attention Were it not for the restive fervor of the man And that strange gaze in his eyes [29] AFTER THE DAY As he stood in the gathering shadows Watching between the trench-sacks. What did he say?" ventured one. "Look at his haggard features!" said another. "I know the type; he will die fighting!" con cluded a third. And all of his tired comrades, Peered at the young French guardsman. Again his lips moved: "They shall not pass!" he breathed; And the winds of evening caught that phrase, Whirling it like a leaf at twilight Into the heart of France ! You have already heard it, It has become familiar to you Afar East ; and to you, afar West And to the clans of the North, And to the tribes of the South. But no one knows that a young French guards man Was first to utter those words, drenched to the Bkin, Knee-deep in mud, disheartened, all but dead As he stood in the gathering shadows, In the grim dusk of the Marne. [30] AFTER THE DAY Departure JT^AREWELL! The path I take JF May have a scarlet ending, Or blaze in a wide, wild radiance Unknown to us; Nevertheless, farewell! My knapsack is adjusted All the implements of war Are strapped to my shoulders, And on my heart rides a stone To balance these securely. The path I take May have a scarlet ending Or lie under gold, rich skies Spun marvellously Of dawns, and days, and darks In splendor flung With glory unsurmised! Yet you will be dreamed of there, And I Shall have fine memories of mirth, [31] AFTER THE DAY Of sudden caresses And the low-mooned bayou, All holy with quiet, and your whispers ! Farewell! The path I take Leads on to bleeding valleys Shrapnel gashed, and furtive ivith the ghosts Of many travellers. . . . My boots are oiled for service, My helmet is lustrous and new; My rifle s fit, and the flags Untattered where I go But if a moveless, strange black horror Comes uprushing to my eyes, And I am gone Into the enduring dusts from you Yet will I take your image far with me, Remembering Your undaunted loneness, and your smile. And some night You will find me in your arms, Pleading For the eventual white flame Of your lips! [32] AFTER THE DAY Antoine, the Birdman ANTOINE was an aviator Before the storming of Ypres. But after that day, when he fell from the clouds He assumed another role, And was known as an invalid At the base Hospital. Some terror of the altitudes Deranged his mind, Lucky fellow though he was To have caught his plane In a draught of air One sheer league from the soil ! I recall at the time How we rushed to congratulate him, But he was gone A strange, sad creature Looked at us instead, regarded us queerly As we lead him away by the arm. [33] AFTER THE DAY After a few days We noticed he continually Referred to himself as a "bird" And insisted with surprising eloquence That we need only to * exert our Will To fly. Poor Antoine The mania of the heights Had gripped him surely, And though we sought to pacify his soul We knew nevertheless, we knew! He argued With rare ingenuity; Saying an eagle had explained matters Above the clouds! An alert, and dapper aviator Was Antoine: Small, wiry of limb, And agile, to a degree scarcely human. His nose was aquiline, Like a hawk s And in the quick comprehension of his gaze He seemed to take A birdseye view of us. . . . [34] AFTER THE DAY After his accident He walked no more, But hopped, as it were, From place to place With his arms crooked at the elbow : Like pinions. His voice was shrill, And the words he used Were chirped across the veranda From his perch On the wide, porch railing. It all happened last night And I shudder now, to divulge this information Someone had conceived the idea Of a masquerade for our convalescents. Those not too incapacitated Had nurses for their partners, Visitors, and such; While others of us, in chairs And on crutches, watched the dancers. Suddenly the room Was darkened by a sweeping Shadow r [35] AFTER THE DAY And lo, Antoine the birdman Had made his entrance, garbed as a falcon ! The costume was excellent Huge, ebony wings Extended celestially Down from his shoulders. And from the feet (that were claws) Upward, his body was encased In glistening, black feathers. His eyes Shone over the beak of him Like a condor s, burning With malignant lustre; And so amazing was the impression he made, So bizzarre, so true, so in keeping with his mind- That the unexpected appearance, Like an apparition silencing us a moment By the shadow cast, Was as suddenly greeted With long, and sincere applause. Thereat, pluming himself, He stepped sedately to the centre of the hall [36] AFTER THE DAY And claimed, for his first dance The Chaplain s daughter. This was not madness It was genius ! She had come Dressed as a canary, A timid, yellow thing ; a small Winsome maid, a "bird" girl Fluttering lightly Over the shining surface of the floor. The music of a waltz began, And to its lilting measures swiftly Swooping, whirling, round and round They glided, scarcely touching The tips of their toes to the wax. Louder sounded the violins, Wilder encircling The canary and the falcon flew, Until the panel doors Blew open at a gust of wind Whereupon, with startling decision He clutched her in his claws And darted away, through the Night. [37] AFTER THE DAY 11 Splendid!" we applauded; "A superb effect " But the Chaplain Was pale, and we suppressed Our approval, subdued Our cheering, wondering why Then a wild fear Leaped in our hearts With the realization that he was mad And the cliffs A stone s throw away! The remembrance Of his insistent argument That flying Was an ability of the Will Came to us, as we saw his figure Swallowed up by the gathering darkness ; Came to us as we watched him Half hopping, half soaring, In flight over the intermediate grasses Making for the promontory. A chorus of cries arose And all of us, on sticks, and crutches, [38] AFTER THE DAY In wheel-chairs, and rockers, Stumbled, fell, limped, rushed With united impulse After the fleeing falcon, with one thought To save the little canary Palpitating, trembling, helpless in his talons! The edge of the cliff was reached With nothing there, and all Our efforts were in vain. Hesitating, some of us imagined We discerned a bleeding, inert mass On the far rocks below And some who gazed into the sky Thought they heard Growing fainter, and fainter, The whirr of enormous wings. . . . [39] AFTEE THE DAY Found in a Diary I AM hiding in a shell-hole. There is no possibility of escape. For hours The whining missils overhead Have told me that ! Yet Hope, like the last drop in a canteen, Has made it easier to wait. . . . Sooner or later, a spray of shrapnel Will end it all; That howitzer s puff of smoke in the clearing Will it offer some delectable of Death? Or one of those mortars, Two hundred yards away. . . . A day, a night, another day, and now The fingers of dusk are closing around me They are creeping over this waste of mud, and debris, They are moving, they are reaching for me! [40] AFTER THE DAY A shadow is an evil thing, And there is an uncouth leer In the eyes of Evening. The "seventy-fives" * whizzbangs " "Skodas" "eighty-eights" "Nine-twos" All of these scream by, Sobbing to themselves, yauping to one another For a day, a night, and a day ! Suppose one should spurt through my skull, sud denly, Blast a shoulder off, Tear my legs to shreds, or plow An exit through my lungs- Yet after some such shattering I might live; Jesus! I might want to live. . . . No! no! no! These hours of waiting Have earned me more than that! I am entitled to my throw of the dice I deserve to die, I have a right to die ! [41] AFTER THE DAY Ah, let me be ! Why do you follow me through the air, You shrieking, weeping creatures Do you want to find me, gash me, grind me Into the drifts, and the dusts? Why do you cry when you pass me. ... Does such rude traveling hurt lead? I wonder if it grieves iron To disturb the blameless breeze I wonder if it pains iron To hiss through a fair, West wind! Should I be hit, I would not survive r (Something in me rebels at the thought of sur viving ! ) It might come by any direction, Or be hurled earthward, from the clouds. Would you want to be wounded, unexpectedly? No man does! The thing to do is to arrange for death, To make careful preparation. . . . My bayonet is very sharp; it could fit in my chest, to the hilt. . . . [42] AFTER THE DAY Suppose some damned explosive found me here. . . . The shock, the suddenness, the utter agony, From something to nothing, in one blinding instant ! No man would wait for that No man can wait for that ! So why should I delay matters? Why should I be waiting When there is no chance, No way of escape from here . . . And should I rise, I would fall! A day, a night, another day, and now . . . My bayonet is very sharp! It could fit in my chest, to the hilt And if it does not, some Hun s hot bullet will. . . . Who wants to be torn, from limb to limb, By a Hun s infernal device Who would wait to be shot When your own bayonet is clean, and keen ? God! I can stand it no longer The terror of a midnight mad with flame, The fear of another morning. . . . [43] AFTER THE DAY There! I have plunged it . . . Fitted it ... in my chest . . . to the hilt! You will say I was afraid . . . to . . . die . Afraid to die . . . all suddenly . . . to . . . die I was . . . afraid . . . to . . . live . . . / . . . was . . . afraid . . . To . . die! [44] AFTER THE DAY Soldier, Answer Me! SOLDIER, answer me! What are you fighting for? Is it the archaic joy of battle Or the conceit of arms; Is it a desire to flaunt your courage In the face of Providence, Is it for the bauble of Popularity? It is some of these things, Man, But most of all It is an heritage in my heart That stirs At the wild roll of drums! Soldier, answer me ! What are you bleeding for? Is it a ruse to dodge the slings of Fate Is it a chance you take In the game of War Is it a play For the indulgence of a contrite world; [45] AFTER THE DAY Is it a profanation of the body For the sake of the Soul? It is some of these things, Man, But most of all, It is a glad awakening At the cry of bugles! Soldier, answer me! What are you dying for? Is it to justify the error Of politicians, Is it to glorify some leader Is it a satiation At the vain pursuits, and mockeries of men; Are you indulgent only to yourself, Having no desire to share Your life with others Do you long for the solid comfort Of a grave? It is some of these things, Man, But most of all It is because I was born On the soil of my forefathers; I am a young custodian [46] AFTER THE DAY Of their lands. War is the privilege Of my race Birth gave it me, And Death Will not take it away! [47] AFTER THE DAY Pere Lachaise YOU, who have been to France - While in Paris Did you go to the cemetery Of Pere Lachaise? On entering, Up the cypress avenue To the "Monument of the Dead" By Bartholome, Do you recall the figures Full of pathos On that sarcophagus of limestone? They represent Humanity Pressing forward To the door of the tomb ! That marble chapel Erected to Thiers And the tribute To Abelard and Heloi se! Under a Gothic canopy [48] AFTER THE DAY Those statues are shaded, Symbolizing the love and misfortune Of two whose plight Has been a theme For many poets. Here is the last, surviving evidence Of famous authors, Dramatists, and composers Remembered by an image, A medallion, or a bust; And within the gloom Of every shrouded thing A moral lies ! It is fair to see With what fine reverence the French Honor their men and women Of genius, whose work Has made the immortality Of a Nation. Here, where the quaking aspen Trembles windward, And the yew plays, quietly, (Greener, far, than those [49] AFTER THE DAY On the Champs Elysees!) Repose the dreamers Of unburied Science, Philosophy, and Art! So musing, on all That is, or was And all That shall not be again, I realized (as my footfall Crushed the future of a flower!) How each solitary path Holds the mould of men whose fame Survives them, And of women more beautiful Than many passing in the sun. And I saw, too, The mounds of children Whose cheeks alas, held No sententious tinge Of their dawns, nor any glimmering From those far gates where silently The shadows come, and go ! You, on furlough from Chateau Thierry Did no message come to you, [501 AFTER THE DAY Born on the restive airs None of their words, no answer To stir your heart s lone questioning? I heard young zephyrs Holding secrets here And so arose a murmuring at dusk That told of Kings Who found antiquity One everlasting Night; And some of Thought s nobility Had passed, And those who searched Within Whereat the world Knew them no longer ! These souls were great, And each for greatness sued Yet one by one they faltered on the Way And their voices Are become nocturnal echoes, flung From star to star. Some toilers gain late laurels For their pain ; [51] AFTER THE DAY Yet when Success Its bounty would bestow, Time clutches for the wreath And uses it To decorate a tomb! I think there is no grief So fathomless As the least lily Pleading by a wall; Nor anything More sad than vines Clinging to an old friend s monument. They seem to have their transitory moments, Their unfamiliar, small ambitions, Seeking from enclasped granite Some eminence, there to gaze Upon the aspect of Eternity. What more could you attain, Or these poor, inert mortals ? The smallest fern Does well, And they fared ill; and you also Are but a minion Of Life s old disasters. [52] AFTER THE DAY 0, men of Hope And men of urging Will ! And you who dwell In Wisdom s halls, So lonely, and so high ! There is no leaf Inferior to you And where your consecrated deeds abide, Your prejudice, and pride, And where your votive tapers flare Against the passing Dark ; Age will beckon with a withered finger Wherever you are Its cold insistency will be. ... On the final pyres No sacrifice Will answer for your Self, No other heart Lie in your cerements! But fruitage of the twilight Are men s souls, And though the race be hard [53] AFTER THE DAY The winning near, or far, A graveyard claims each weary contestant. If you hesitate, doubting Because I was afraid at Cantigny Go to the resting place Of those From whom you are descended ; Listen to the evening s searching breeze When it drifts Into sepulchres, and out again, When it curls under the eaves of dark mausoleums And departs With a far whisper of despair. . . . If you understand its errand, If you know what it seeks, and where it goes You will not be forgotten. [54] AFTER THE DAY Croix De Guerre FROM fields of carnage I brought her souvenirs: A beryl signet Torn from one the Emperor Had honored ; Also, a case of old Damascus And some trifles Gathered at twilight From those Whose throats were stopped in dust. "But these are not treasures," she said; "To have value They must ~be gems of fire!" Then, hesitating, I displayed The small, bronze croix de guerre With which a famous man Had decorated me, Saying it was for a little thing I did At Chalons. [55] AFTER THE DAY "But it is not of gold/ 1 she replied; And alas, the ribbon is stained! f Whereat I went away Thinking these unfit presents for the one I loved. And for hours I wandered through the streets Until someone Touched my arm in the shadows : "That medal on your chest, mon cherie Tell me about it!" A long time she listened, And that night I entered the door of Happiness. [56] AFTER THE DAY Wounded SING me a. song, Fleurette! I have taken the medicine As Messieur le Docteur Prescribed it And my pain . . . my pain . . . is sleeping!" * Bien, cherie ! I know a little French one, Taught me in the Convent of the Sacre Coeur: "Petals falling, Breezes calling Blossoms from the grain; Lilies sighing Violets crying Weeping in the rain ! The moon an incense-breathing censer swings Across the drowsy foliage of Night 0, by the casement sings a maiden, ! [57] AFTER THE DAY The winds from scented gardens pass, like wings Of many moths in strange, noctural flight O, by the casement sings a maiden, ! Her song is of the petals As they fall, Her voice is in the breezes As they call To blossoms from the grain, Lilies sighing Violets crying And every heart soft weeping In the rain!" "Very good, Fleurette. Now, if you will turn out the light I believe I can rest for a while." [58] AFTER THE DAY A Whisper at the Gate " T LOVE your JL He would say, so often Under the trees ~by the garden gate; But he went to the front, Messieur. Only his words remain, Like the perfume of flowers that have fallen " I know the sorrow Of that peasant girl in Louvain She was one Who had bade adieu forever To a valiant defender of France. " I love you! He would say, so often Under the trees by the garden gate " Whispering on the timorous air of night How often have her words Strayed across our heartstrings ! How often do they stir the leaves of Yesterday And the blossoms of Today; [59] AFTER THE DAY From what dreaming vista Has that yearning gone away Over what streams, confiding When the moon swings low. . . . It is the burden of the winds, And the sorrow of the sea! " I love yon! He would say, so often " Memory brought only that, And her heart fell, lost Like a rose In the Winter s blowing. " / love you! " [60] AFTER THE DAY The Albatross r SAW an albatross I Dead, and the shifting sands Sought to conceal This too presumptuous sorrow, Sought silently To so engulf it, that the passing stars Might shine ungrieved. For all men know The gray breath of the sea, Know the storm s wrath, and its courier That cries wild warning To the shores of morn. . . . I saw an albatross, Dead, swollen, slowly floundered By receding waters. I saw Its body; I lost That semblance of the dim, drenched heavens Urging from cliff to cloud above The unrest of the sea! % [61] AFTEE THE DAY I missed the white, gleaming wing Against my blue world; The calm eye and lone, liquescent lilt Prom opal crests; the dipping into these For sudden, silvered treasure Bevelling, rejoicing, reposing In the wind s wake; High feathering, low darting, All finally to soar Into arid silence, nightward seeking. Long had it flown, long before me Over the sad ocean, over the ruins Of many a yesterday. . . . I stood In mute reverence At that burial, by waters receding, Under the passing stars. [62] AFTER THE DAY Domesday WHEREUPON a flame Engulfed them, And our land Of long enchantment Crumbled under fire Terrific from retaliatory suns. In torrid vapors Broiled the seas and rivers of an outcast world. . . . Crawled they, rising like ebullient serpents, Seething, commingling, merging moonward, Leaping of red tongues, licking the spheres Writhing perilously on high; Then rushed they down, in final cataracts, To the last, phantasmagoric Abyss. All pulseless were the tides, And tottering to silence Every avatar of Light : [63] AFTER THE DAY The welkin had no cloud, No morn its dew No tree found leaf And verdure was refused, And every bloom died unsought On the sedge, and bough, and vine. All heaven was abandoned; The winds, Once many voiced, continuous, and fair Were fallen at hush Oceans ceased to stir, And stagnant they lolled Untremulous against the shores of Night. Only a laughter, infinite and wild, Rang from the nocturnal peaks of Chaos. A laughter, Sardonic and convulsed With all the mad hyprocrisies of Time r Rolling from no special height, nor plain, Dismal, discorporate, wailing Ribald at the nothingness of Doom. [64] AFTER THE DAY There was no use for symphonies, and such, Nor letters, nor the protoplasmic scheme Of anything beneath the cindered stars. What with wild wars And devastated Hope The evidence of Man Had burned away; Contestless, ruined, insensate Was Creation ; Without our strange posterity And impotent, and cold. The mirage of Life Had been, but was no more. A fatal, overwhelming Dark Prevailed, And in the dark, that Laughter! [65] AFTER THE DAY * Amerongen Castle PACING the garden Of Amerongen Castle, He walks continuously Up and down the graveled pathways Of the grounds. Bowed in reflection, With his arms Clasped behind him ; Endless is his promenade Walking up and down the graveled pathways Of Amerongen Castle. Peasants go clattering along The canal banks, Down the verdant dykes and dunes of Holland - Laughing a great deal in the sun, Contented, loquacious; But on the far side of the wall There is a man who does not laugh, * Amerongen" is a cryptic word, spelling One German. Re arrange the letters, and see for yourself. [66] AFTER THE DAY Who paces only the gardens And who does not laugh. The sun goes down And the moon ascends, And the peasants Sing on the levee On the silver waters The peasants are singing; But on the far side of the wall There is a man who does not sing, A man who walks The graveled paths of Amerongen And who does not sing. Nothing is more continuous, incessant, and per sistent Than his walking Up and down, up and down, From this gate, on to that, From one wall to another. Never will the thoughts of him Still those footsteps for a moment, Nor stay The long march of his Conscience. [67] AFTER THE DAY And as he paces It is like a tread On the dead hearts of men Treading with each step, treading On a heart ! Bowed in reflection, With his arms Clasped behind him Over his brow comes a chilling, Comes a throbbing, so continuous, So incessant, and prolonged Up and down the graveled pathways By Amerongen walls; There are many hearts to pace there, To account for, to absolve, On the Castle s graveled pathways By Amerongen walls. . . . There are many steps to pace, Ere the final Step. [68] H AFTEE THE DAY The Sniper E told me this yarn, like a schoolboy, While I bandaged his hand by the fire "Boches! That s what they were Five of us Took their dug-out in the morning; The fog Was heavy over Chalons, It wrapped the trenches in gray, Clung to the wires, and dripped From every broken tree. . . . We heard them laughing, And nobody can stand that, in the shivering dawn! Bind the gauze tightly, Sam, Never mind the salve What s a thumb, more or less? I haven t used mine Since I was a baby; [69] AFTER THE DAY Aw, stop looking so seriously It s a little thing! Crawling, scarcely breathing, Stopping, continuing under the entanglement s- So! Five grenades forward; Mud, and moans, then Kamerad! Twenty of em, Sam, Cringed against the gunnies! It was easy work, we thought, And filed away, when Well . . . what could I use it for? Thumbs up, thumbs down Ha! ha! I guess I wasn t made to be A Vestal Virgin! We thought we had em all, But a puff Came over the clearing One of us Stumbled forward Sudden blood Bubbled from his ears, And the sniper . . . had scored! [70] AFTER THE DAY Nevermind, pal; he ll pay! 1 Again the puff, and a pang Somewhere shoulderward But this time we saw his rifle Gleam against the ridge; Caught a glint of steel In a first, faint ray Of the sun! We Crouched, and waited. Bill s helmet on the end of a stick Was a good decoy The fool shot twice, then, Shells gone, and frightened, He stood up, raised his arms, and shouted As those had done whom we spared: Kamerad! Kamerad! Kamerad, ~be damned! said Bill. So we pumped the full contents Of our automatics Into his crumbling chest, into his rotten heart! He told me this yarn, like a schoolboy, While I bandaged his hand by the fire. [71] AFTER THE DAY Passing in the Sun TODAY I saw them passing In the sun The khakied ranks And regiments of War. I saw An urgent multitude Of friends, and the faces Of parents anticipating I saw Rejoicing, hearted women And patient tears Lo, laughing in their eyes. . . . Today I saw them passing In the sun The moon declining, and low vestal stars Beholden also, shone glimmering [72] AFTER THE DAY Down the flower-flung streets Gold garlanded, and silvern To the clatter of their feet. Today I saw Somewhere he Was marching. . . . Dear Christ! Though the night Be nailed forever To my cross Let his dawn Bleed white with wings ! [73] AFTER THE DAY The Aviator DUST, in clouds Envelop their machines, And the air burns, vibrating With discordant cries Orders From directing officers, Calls to linemen, Hurried explanations, a last shout To the machinist. Final commands And then, farewell! Over the low, shuddering grasses His airplane jerks, jolting To the utmost endurance. He grips the wheel, plunging headlong. Suddenly a wind Lifts under the solitary man And lo, He is flying! [74] AFTER THE DAY On the wide sward Others are starting, and the sky Reverberates with throbbing hearts, With those strange, mechanical devices Beating on, and on, while their iron bosoms Heave and swell from the tumult Of a carbureted soul. . . . Presently, the mists foregather Coming between. Gray waters Roll far beneath All on the field, moments later Become gnats, and disappear. From a distance, the clutter of his companions Sounds to him through cool spaces; Soon the song of their metallic throats Merges into whispering And is heard no more. Life itself, is such a coursing On lanes of azure And we are all Solitary aviators! Only, in this world-long race One after another [75] AFTER THE DAY Is outdistanced By an ultimate few Who are themselves deserted In the final stretch By one Who travels alone. Long ago they left him, The birdmen careening earthward Onward he drives, feathering Through an icy, dim atmosphere. Into the farthest ocean, shot by arrows Of deepening shadow Falls the wounded sun. Illimitable night In mystery and silence, Closes around him Onward he goes, onward, onward. [76] AFTER THE DAY Outriders of the Night COURSING the roads at dayfall, In the midmost dusk they pass The outriders of the Night. I have seen them, If you ask me From the gray heights of Vimy Ridge I have seen them Riding in the dawn, And in the bleak immensities of Dark. My dreams Are fraught with spectral images I see old citadels, and gates Of massive bronze unopened save to Kings; Whereat comes One According to the stars And lo, the locks, the idle bolts of Ages Fall asunder in the gloom! [77] AFTER THE DAY Who rides now, Those ancient lanes of France? Who strides the old, accustomed leagues With dim cavalry, betimes, Who leads the soldiery of other wars Whose whispers Mingle in the day s late winds, Whose armor is of shadow, whose eyes Are glowless in the evening s enterprise? She has entered Orleans, Mounted, at the head of many horsemen, she enters. . . . It is vespered twilight, And the bells Of phantom arches toll; They draw rein before the cathedral, Before those demolished walls : That ruined pile Touched by no glint of sun, Nor any ray Prevailing its lost corridors. . . . For a long time They remain [78] AFTER THE DAY While the shades Lengthen, creep up, up, With ghostly hands Entreating some reprisal For the dead! I have heard their hoof-beats In the silent, moon-dim valleys ; I have heard their chargers breathing . . . drink ing slowly . . . By the cool waters of the Meuse. I have seen them Fleeing northward From the Somme, from the Marne And the peasants at Ypres Know them well, The outriders of the Night ! Those who dwell In gray huts By the sea < Have felt the presence Of these tireless ones; The fisherfolk at Calais Will gather round you, and tell [79] AFTER THE DAY How the dunes are forever murmuring of them, And the airs, low-blowing shoreward. Toilers of the nets, and lighthouse guards Will speak of that darkest hour When Paris was at prayer- And what they heard, borne on the sudden wind. . . . Some call them the " angels" of the Marne And some are mute, and there are others With a fine glint in their eyes As if they, too, Had seen sights, stranger than the gift of words Will ever bring to men. Coursing the roads at dayfall In the midmost dusk they pass The outriders of the Night. [80] AFTER THE DAY Le Strynge MINISTER, grimacing, *J Laughing in the night, You, on the balustrade of Notre Dame Leering over the gargoyles, From the parapet and eminence of Faith! You, faithless One ! Believing not, and brooding With quaint mendacity Over the lights, and shades, Over the pleasures, and the pain of Paris. Long have I regarded you, Strynge ! A pagan On the edifice of Christ; Unsought, unseeking Mocking the years, and the tears of us ! There is a strange, lack lustre in your eyes A cold, forboding cynicism On your grotesque lips. [81] AFTER THE DAY In their shadow What crawling minions pass, Below you, pass in and out of the Church; Always crossing your shadow, Stepping into it, through it, out of it, and on. Always below you, blots of men In your shadow! Below The strange, lack lustre in your eyes And the cynicism On your grotesque lips. Long have I regarded you, Strynge ! Unsought, unseeking Mocking the years, and the tears of us. Are you not a pagan On the edifice of Christ ? Are you waiting f [82] AFTER THE DAY Anarchy I SAW the statue of Liberty Looming against New York. I was a son of the plains, I believed in prophecies And mine eyes brimmed As the visions faded, As our transport Cleaved the waters of the wide Atlantic. I am returning And there it is again, From my crutches I observe it Colossal, strange, and menacing; Alas, is it Liberty? I see a wanton, wild hag leering there Gaunt of figure, shrunken to despair, And draped in the old habiliments of Crime. [83] AFTER THE DAY From the drear sockets Of her eyes Glare the lamps of civilized Revolt, Within the pent clutch of her hand Smolders a bomb. . . . See that long, emaciated arm Uplifted through the gloom, And the torch Flaring its lurid challenge to the sky ! [84] AFTER THE DAY Post Mortem I AM become an inmate Of man s ancient habitude ! Dead, with the aid of Krupp And a pale subaltern named Schnitzler. Maddened by the sting of his rifle, I flung my tent-ax deep in his chest. . But an automatic had something to say, So I am here. Dead ! And the stars are sentinels, Always constant, never failing, Hovering ever, ever gleaming Over my stark remains! My teeth . . . only my teeth Gleam back at them From the wide, Somme prairie. [85] AFTER THE DAY Court Martial (Guilty) NO one in the regiment Regards me as a deserter But you know otherwise, My lonely one! I left you lately For the love of War, Honor became my mistress And a battlefield was our bed. I have been promoted for loyal conduct, And no one knows Nor thinks, nor cares For the broken camp, and the pledge we plighted Under the vines at home! [86] AFTER THE DAY Coup d Etat PEACE! Ah, there s a word! Now tell me, you who juggle: Have those nimble necromancers at Versailles Made it a just peace, Or just peace ? This is no trick, I assure you; It s diplomacy! And by that you may see How a word divides The false aim from the true. Yet in such difference Lies our destiny. [87] AFTER THE DAY De Profundis \HE world expected so much of me, That in desperate attempts To forget, My heart was pierced And disconsolate, My soul fled into the Night. The world expected so much of me, And insisted For so many years, That from urgent endeavor My lids have drooped So now I lie in the dust. [88] AFTER THE DAY The Great War Prologue : TELL you the story Of the Great War ? Be sure, my friends, It is no easy task In so brief time, In such confining space. Much may pass untold, Yet grant me leave! A shot Was fired one day At Sarajevo, and I would tell .you How it wounded half the world If I but may: 1914 June 28. The Archduke Francis Ferdinand of Aus tria [89] AFTER THE DAY Is assassinated on this date, Which disposes of a successor To the throne of Karl. July 5 The Crown Council of Germany Meets at Potsdam And decides on war. July 28 Austria declares war On Serbia. August 1. Germany declares war on Russia And invades Luxemburg And Belgium. August 3. Germany declares war on France. August 4. Great Britain declares war on Germany. August 25. Germans destroy Louvain, And massacre the inhabitants. [90] AFTER THE DAY September 1. German troops reach the outskirts Of Paris. September 6. The battle of the Marne Is fought in which the French Force the Germans To retreat to the Aisne River. December 24. The first German air raid Is made on England. 1915 May 7. The Lusitania is torpedoed By a German submarine. May 23. Italy declares war on Austria. August 20. Italy declares war on Turkey. October 12. Edith Cavell is shot By Germans in Brussells. [91] AFTER THE DAY 1916 February 21. The German attacks on Verdun begin. "They shall not pass!" Petain. April 19. An American ultimatum Is sent to Germany, Threatening to break off relations Unless American ships Go unmolested. May 31. The Germans are defeated In a naval battle off Jutland. August 27. Roumania declares war on Germany. August 2.8. Italy declares war on Germany. 1917 January 31. Germany announces Ruthless submarine warfare. [92] AFTER THE DAY February 3. The United States Breaks off diplomatic relations With Germany. April 6. The United States Declares war on Germany. "Make the world safe for Democracy!" Wilson. June 26. The first American troops Land in France. "Lafayette, we are here!" Pershing. June 29. Greece declares war on Germany. December 9. Jerusalem is captured By the British. "The law of Force Must yield to the force of Law!" Allenby. [93] AFTER THE DAY 1918 March 3. The Brest-Litovsk Treaty. "Germany at her worst!" Haig. March 21. The great German Offensive begins. "In Paris by the first of April!" Hindenburg. April 14. General Foch is appointed commander-m- chief Of the Allied Armies. May 27 The last great German drive Is begun on Paris. They reach the Marne again. June 6. The American marines Smash back at Chateau Thierry Marking the turning point Of the war. [94] AFTER THE DAY June 7. General Omar Bundy An American commander, Refuses the French order To retreat. June 23. The Italians Drive the Austrians Back from their lines To a flight across the Piave With losses totaling one hundred fifty thou sand soldiers. July 12. French and American forces Break the German Offensive North of Cantigny. July 18. Marshal Foch Begins his great counter-attack. August 6. German "75-mile" guns Kill civilians in Paris. [95] AFTER THE DAY August 25. British battalions Cross the Hindenburg line North of the Searpe. September 2. The United States Recognizes the Checho-Slovak Nation, September 12. The First American Army Takes fifteen thousand prisoners At St. Mihiel salient. September 22. British forces Trap the entire Turkish Army In Palestine. September 30. Bulgaria lays down arms. October 18. The Germans are driven back From the Belgian Coast, [96] AFTER THE DAY October 24. The troops of Italy Launch a victorious offensive. Against Austria. October 30. Turkey surrenders. November 3. Austria surrenders. November 7. General Pershing Leads an American division To the capture of Sedan. November 9. The Kaiser of Germany Abdicates and departs for Holland. November 11. Germany surrenders To an Allied Armistice. [97] Miscellaneous AFTER THE DAY I Saw a Dead Man I SAW a dead man in the night, His body stark, his visage damp With chilling dews ; I saw his hands That bore a rifle rigid quite, And medals on his chest, the lamp Of Heaven traced by lunar strands. I saw a dead man in the night, His blackened jowls, his sunken eyes, The blood-clots on his matted hair. I saw his uniform ; the light Of outraged stars gleamed with surmise Against his teeth, against his stare. I saw a dead man in the night, His pallid silence, and the cold Of lifelessness creep over him ; I saw his sabre, and the slight Wound mine had made. I saw unfold The wings of Death to cover him. [100] AFTER THE BAY I saw a dead man in the night, Whose spirit long departed made Of human semblance nothingness ; I saw his shadow, and the might Of untold comrades marching, fade From earth to God. Ah, Life were less! [101] AFTER THE DAY On Duty I HEARD the tread o soldier feet On withered leaves, an dry. "Halt, an give the Countersign Who goes there?" hollers I. "British Ambulance Corps!" Was the Sergeant s prompt reply. Pass, British Ambulance Corps ! An "All is well!" says I; So shoulderin me gun, I watched The Tommies marchin by. Again the tread o soldier feet That night (the moon was high) "Halt, an give the Countersign, "Who goes there?" hollers I. "French Ambulance Corps!" Was the Sergeant s prompt reply. * Pass, French Ambulance Corps ! An "All is well!" says I; [102] AFTER THE DAY So shoulderin me gun, I watched The Poilus marchin by. I ve told ye wat the Sergeants said, An my woids wat were mine (I follows post-instructions, an I never miss a line ! ) Along th Wypers road at night The shells was burstin , say (I seen more killed from dark to dawn Than ever died by day ! ) An ups an down the Avenoo The stretcher-bearers passed, From dawn to dark, and dark to dawn Wid wounded, dead, an gassed. "Mon Dieu!" I thinks the Commandmant Would say, an so did I, When, once again, the tread o feet On withered leaves, an dry. Halt, an give the Countersign 4 Who goes there?" hollers I. "None of your damn business!" Was the Sergeant s prompt reply. [103] AFTER THE DAY "Pass, American Ambulance Corps!" An "All is well!" says I; So shoulderin me gun, I watched The Yankees marchin by! [104] AFTER THE DAY In a Belgian Prison THIS is that dread hour Of the rising moon, Four thund rous years ago A night in June. Here, where the lurking twilight creeps Through garden ferns, And shadows clasp ghost-fingers on The ivyed urns; Here, where a festive Belgian sings His joyous lay, And lovers hearts beat to the drums The Allies play Here, I forever damned my soul : O er fields of dire Unhallowed troops I flew, a Spy With word to fire ! This is that dread hour Of the rising moon, Four thund rous years ago A night in June. [ 105 ] AFTER THE DAY In the Shadows IT stands, a dark and melancholy tree Leaf-lorn beside the sorrow of that land; Somewhere against a gray, enshrouded strand Echo nocturnes sighing from the sea Of days that pass; and in far Normandy Fair winds have died on grieving drifts of sand Somewhere in Flanders there s a shadowed Hand, Somewhere in France, a broken fleur-de-lis! night of Nations ! When men s voices leap Athwart Titanic gulfs, and Tyrant power Hath rolled away like thunder from the Deep What cry shall rise in that wide, wondrous hour: Behold, against the sky for all to see A lonely crucifix on Cavalry! [106] AFTER THE DAY A Cashmere Song OSAMAR! Sing to me of swans at eve And sleeping orchids where the twi light falls On cadenced water, murmuring at dusk A requiem beside the Palace walls How in these dark and soundless gardens strayed Two mystic friends discoursing on their loves At sundown, while an amber, crescent moon Climbed starward o er the Maharaja s groves! 1 ( One was a King, who secretly had yearned Long years for that oft promised by the Rose, And one a Prince of Yesterday who came From rivers where the Scarlet Poppy blows. "0 King, in sanguine conquest I have tried By feat of Battle, and the glint of swords [107] AFTER THE DAY To vanquish eager armies of thy foes To humble to thy knee, the foreign Lords ! " My Prince, the King replied, Hhou speakest well, Yet it is vain. The bloom of Hope is past A mighty wind hath smote the tree of Eld And lo, its leaves lie scattered in the blast ! " From out the West, beyond engulfing seas, Bronze legions plunge undaunted, and no dread Nor any horror quells their clamoring : Allah! Peace be with them! War is dead. . . . "No word was uttered more. The cypress paths A deep, sequestered whispering renewed; Whereat they vanished, and the voiceless gloom Mantled again that ancient solitude. "What dust cries to the years! Those Palace walls Have crumbled into silence and decay ; No swans at twilight float among the reeds And orchids, poppies, all have blown away! [108] AFTER THE DAY "Both King and Prince in closing mists have passed Along the shadowed corridor of dreams . . . " Samar! Thou art bathed in dawning light Sing of a sorrow ~by forgotten streams! [109] YB 12289 UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORN1A LIBRARY