Great Poems of the World War. William Dunseath Eaton
who shall return no more.
“Salute me, stranger, as you pass! I mark a soldier who
Gave up the joys of living here, to dare and die for you!
This is the home that once he knew, who fought for you and fell;
This is a shrine of sacrifice, where faith and courage dwell.”
WATCHIN’ OUT FOR SUBS
U. A. L.
From Bert Leston Taylor’s column, “A Line o’ Type or Two,” in The Chicago Tribune
BOSUN’s whistle piping, “Starboard watch is on”
Sleepy army officer, waked at crack o’ dawn;
In the forward crow’s nest, watchin’ out for subs;
If they show a peeper, shoot the bloomin’ tubs.
Ocean black and shiny, silly little moon;
Transports fore and aft of us—daylight comin’ soon;
Sleeping troopers sprawling on the deck below;
Something in the water makes the spindrift glow.
In the forward crow’s nest—ah! the day is here!
Transports and destroyers looming far and near.
Ours the great adventure—gone is old romance!
Wake, ye new Crusaders! Look!—the shores of France!
FRENCH IN THE TRENCHES
WILLIAM J. ROBINSON
in The San Francisco Argonaut
Permission to reproduce in this book
I HAVE a conversation book; I brought it out from home.
It tells you the French for knife and fork and likewise brush and comb;
It learns you how to ask the time, the names of all the stars,
And how to order oysters and how to buy cigars.
But there ain’t no stores to buy in; there ain’t no big hotels,
When you spend your time in dugouts doing a wholesale trade in shells;
It’s nice to know the proper talk for theatres and such,
But when it comes to talking, why, it doesn’t help you much.
There’s all them friendly kind o’ things you’d naturally say
When you meet a feller casual like and pass the time o’ day.
Them little things that breaks the ice and kind of clears the air.
But when you use your French book, why, them things isn’t there.
I met a chap the other day a-rootin’ in a trench.
He didn’t know a word of ours, nor me a word of French;
And how we ever managed, well, I cannot understand,
But I never used my French book though I had it in my hand.
I winked at him to start with; he grinned from ear to ear;
An’ he says, “Bong jour, Sammy,” an’ I says “Souvenir”;
He took my only cigarette, I took his thin cigar, Which set the ball a-rollin’, and so—well, there you are! I showed him next my wife and kids; he up and showed me his, Them funny little French kids with hair all in a frizz; “Annette,” he says, “Louise,” he says, and his tears begin to fall; We was comrades when we parted, though we’d hardly spoke at all.
He’d have kissed me if I’d let him. We had never met before,
And I’ve never seen the beggar since, for that’s the way of war;
And though we scarcely spoke a word, I wonder just the same
If he’ll ever see them kids of his—I never asked his name.
LITANY
ALLENE GREGORY
in Harriet Monroe’s Poetry Magazine
Permission to reproduce in this book
SAINT Genevieve, whose sleepless watch
Saved threatened France of old,
Above the ship that carries him
Your sacred vigil hold.
Where all the fair green fields you loved
Are scarred with bursting shell,
Joan, the Maid who fought for France—
Oh, guard your young knight well.
But if by sea or if by land
God set death in his way—
Then, Mother of the Sacrificed,
Teach me what prayer to pray!
RAGNAROK
The Twilight of the Gods
ARTHUR GUITERMAN
in The Bellman, Minneapolis
Permission to reproduce in this book
HO! Heimdal sounds the Gjallar-horn:
The hosts of Hel rush forth
And Fenris rages redly
From his shackles in the North;
Unleashed is Garm, and Lok is loosed,
And freed is Giant Rime;
The Rainbow-bridge is broken
By the hordes of Muspelheim.
The wild Valkyries ride the wind
With spear and clanging shield
Where all the Hates embattled
Are met on Vigrid-field;
For there shall fall the Mighty Ones
By valiant men adored—
Great Odin, Tyr the fearless,
And Frey that sold his sword.
And Thor shall slay the dragon
Whose breath shall be his bane.
The gods themselves shall perish;
The sons of the gods shall reign!
Old Time shall sound the boding horn
Again and yet again,
To rouse the warring passions
That swell the hearts of men.
Revolt shall wake, and Anarchy,
With all their horrid throng—
Revenge, Destruction, Rapine,
The spawn of ancient Wrong,
With all the hosts of slaughter
That our own sins must breed—
Cold Hate, Oppression’s daughter,
And Rage, the child of Greed.