If I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath,
  I’d live with scarlet Majors at the Base,
And speed glum heroes up the line to death. 
  You’d see me with my puffy petulant face,
Guzzling and gulping in the best hotel,
  Reading the Roll of Honour.  “Poor young chap,”
I’d say—­“I used to know his father well;
  Yes, we’ve lost heavily in this last scrap.” 
And when the war is done and youth stone dead,
I’d toddle safely home and die—­in bed.

LAMENTATIONS

I found him in a guard-room at the Base. 
From the blind darkness I had heard his crying
And blundered in.  With puzzled, patient face
A sergeant watched him; it was no good trying
To stop it; for he howled and beat his chest. 
And, all because his brother had gone West,
Raved at the bleeding war; his rampant grief
Moaned, shouted, sobbed, and choked, while he was kneeling
Half-naked on the floor.  In my belief
Such men have lost all patriotic feeling.

THE GENERAL

“Good-morning; good-morning!” the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the Line,
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,
And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine. 
“He’s a cheery old card,” grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.

* * * * *

But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

HOW TO DIE

Dark clouds are smouldering into red
  While down the craters morning burns. 
The dying soldier shifts his head
  To watch the glory that returns: 
He lifts his fingers toward the skies
  Where holy brightness breaks in flame;
Radiance reflected in his eyes,
  And on his lips a whispered name.

You’d think, to hear some people talk,
  That lads go West with sobs and curses,
And sullen faces white as chalk,
  Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses. 
But they’ve been taught the way to do it
  Like Christian soldiers; not with haste
And shuddering groans; but passing through it
  With due regard for decent taste.

EDITORIAL IMPRESSION

He seemed so certain “all was going well,”
As he discussed the glorious time he’d had
While visiting the trenches. 
                             “One can tell
You’ve gathered big impressions!” grinned the lad
Who’d been severely wounded in the back
In some wiped-out impossible Attack. 
“Impressions?  Yes, most vivid!  I am writing
A little book called Europe on the Rack,
Based on notes made while witnessing the fighting. 
I hope I’ve caught the feeling of ‘the Line,’
And the amazing spirit of the troops.