Poems

Disabled

     He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
     And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
     Legless, sewn short at elbow.  Through the park
     Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
     Voices of play and pleasure after day,
     Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

     About this time Town used to swing so gay
     When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees
     And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,
    —In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
     Now he will never feel again how slim
     Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,
     All of them touch him like some queer disease.

     There was an artist silly for his face,
     For it was younger than his youth, last year.
     Now he is old; his back will never brace;
     He's lost his colour very far from here,
     Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
     And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race,
     And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
     One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg,
     After the matches carried shoulder-high.
     It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
     He thought he'd better join.  He wonders why . . .
     Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.

     That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
     Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,
     He asked to join.  He didn't have to beg;
     Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.
     Germans he scarcely thought of; and no fears
     Of Fear came yet.  He thought of jewelled hilts
     For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
     And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
     Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
     And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

     Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
     Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
     Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.
     Now, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes,
     And do what things the rules consider wise,
     And take whatever pity they may dole.
     To-night he noticed how the women's eyes
     Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
     How cold and late it is!  Why don't they come
     And put him into bed?  Why don't they come?

The End

     After the blast of lightning from the east,
     The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot throne,
     After the drums of time have rolled and ceased
     And from the bronze west long retreat is blown,

     Shall Life renew these bodies?  Of a truth
     All death will he annul, all tears assuage?
     Or fill these void veins full again with youth
     And wash with an immortal water age?

     When I do ask white Age, he saith not so,—
     "My head hangs weighed with snow."
     And when I hearken to the Earth she saith
     My fiery heart sinks aching.  It is death.
     Mine ancient scars shall not be glorified
     Nor my titanic tears the seas be dried."