Great Poems of the World War. William Dunseath Eaton

       in London Punch

       Table of Contents

      Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of “Punch”

      HERE in the long white ward I stand,

       Pausing a little breathless space,

       Touching a restless fevered hand,

       Murmuring comforts commonplace—

      Long enough pause to feel the cold

       Fingers of fear about my heart;

       Just for a moment, uncontrolled,

       All the pent tears of pity start.

      While here I strive, as best I may,

       Strangers’ long hours of pain to ease,

       Dumbly I question—Far away Lies my beloved even as these?

THE LITTLE HOME PAPER

       CHARLES HANSON TOWNE

       Table of Contents

      in The American Magazine

      Permission to reproduce in this book

      THE little home paper comes to me,

       As badly printed as it can be;

       It’s ungrammatical, cheap, absurd—

       Yet, how I love each intimate word!

       For here am I in the teeming town,

       Where the sad, mad people rush up and down,

       And it’s good to get back to the old lost place,

       And gossip and smile for a little space.

      The weather is hot; the corn crop’s good;

       They’ve had a picnic in Sheldon’s Wood.

       And Aunt Maria was sick last week;

       Ike Morrison’s got a swollen cheek,

       And the Squire was hurt in a runaway—

       More shocked than bruised, I’m glad they say.

       Bert Wills—I used to play with him—

       Is working a farm with his Uncle Jim.

      The Red Cross ladies gave a tea,

       And raised quite a bit. Old Sol MacPhee

       Has sold his house on Lincoln Road—

       He couldn’t carry so big a load.

       The methodist minister’s had a call

       From a wealthy parish near St. Paul.

       And old Herb Sweet is married at last—

       He was forty-two. How the years rush past!

      But here’s an item that makes me see

       What a puzzling riddle life can be.

       “Ed Stokes,” it reads, “was killed in France

       When the Allies made their last advance.” Ed Stokes! That boy with the laughing eyes As blue as the early-summer skies! He wouldn’t have killed a fly—and yet, Without a murmur, without a regret,

      He left the peace of our little place,

       And went away with a light in his face;

       For out in the world was a job to do,

       And he wouldn’t come home until it was through!

       Four thousand miles from our tiny town

       And its hardware store, this boy went down.

       Such a quiet lad, such a simple chap—

       But he’s put East Dunkirk on the map!

NO MAN’S LAND

       CAPT. JAMES H. KNIGHT-ADKIN

       Table of Contents

      in The Spectator

      NO Man’s Land is an eerie sight

       At early dawn in the pale gray light.

       Never a house and never a hedge

       In No Man’s Land from edge to edge,

       And never a living soul walks there

       To taste the fresh of the morning air.

       Only some lumps of rotting clay,

       That were friends or foemen yesterday.

      What are the bounds of No Man’s Land?

       You can see them clearly on either hand,

       A mound of rag-bags gray in the sun,

       Or a furrow of brown where the earthworks run

       From the Eastern hills to the Western sea,

       Through field or forest, o’er river and lea;

       No man may pass them, but aim you well

       And Death rides across on the bullet or shell.

      But No Man’s Land is a goblin sight

       When patrols crawl over at dead o’ night;

       Boche or British, Belgian or French,

       You dice with death when you cross the trench.

       When the “rapid,” like fire-flies in the dark,

       Flits down the parapet spark by spark,

       And you drop for cover to keep your head

       With your face on the breast of the four months’ dead.

      The man who ranges in No Man’s Land

       Is dogged by the shadows on either hand

       When the star-shell’s flare, as it bursts o’erhead,

       Scares the great gray rats that feed on the dead,

       And the bursting bomb or the bayonet-snatch

       May answer the click of your safety-catch.

       For the lone patrol, with his life in his hand,

       Is hunting for blood in No Man’s Land.

THE GOLD STAR

       EDGAR A. GUEST

       Table of Contents

      Copyright, 1918, by Edgar A. Guest. Special permission to reproduce in this book.

      THE star upon their service flag has changed to gleaming gold;

       It speaks no more of hope and life, as once it did of old,

       But splendidly it glistens now for every eye to see

       And softly whispers: “Here lived one who died for liberty.

      “Here once he walked and played and laughed, here oft his smile was known;

       Within these walls today are kept the toys he used to own.

       Now I am he who marched away and I am he who fell;

       Of service once I spoke, but now of sacrifice I tell.

      “No richer home in all this land is there than this I grace,

       For here was cradled manhood fine; within this humble place

       A soldier for the truth