Chapter C: Company Cook

“Do you want j-jam on it?” he’d say,
Twirling a red moustache.
We chaffed him over rations every day,
“Say, is this tea or hash?”
“Jim, tell us, do,
Why you put sugar in the blooming stew.”
“--And there’s a heap o’ coal in this--not half!...”
To all our chaff
“Do you want j-jam on it?” he’d say.

EPITAPH

(_T. D._, 13/3/16)

A shallow trench for one so tall!
“Heads down”--no need for that old call
Beneath the upturned sod.
Safe lies his body, never fret,
Behind that crumpled parapet,
And over all this wind and wet
His soul sits safe with God.

SONNET

(_To H. M._)

Him, the gods, loving, took while life was young....
Say rather (clinging to a wiser creed)
God took, and suddenly on wings of speed
Bore to the utter quietness far flung
Of fields Elysian where the horrid tongue
Of battle is not. For He knew his need
Better than those who knew him well indeed,
Loving him best. Above his grave is rung
The death-bell of all things which hurt the sense
And vex the mind and plague the soul of man,
Tingeing the rainbow colours of his best
Dreams drably: and hath cried a voice, “Go hence!
Old Angel Time, to weary whom you can,
The while my well-beloved child hath rest.”

THE FIRST SPRING DAY

(_To A. E. S._)

We laid you fast in frozen clay
When Winter had enchained the land.
(Lad, was it but three weeks to-day?)
And now comes Springtime’s messenger with golden tidings in his hand.

A mist blows off the thawing earth,
And drips from every budding tree,
The springs are loosed, and mad with mirth
Run lisping in the fallen leaves, or laughing in the sunlight free.

Oh you who loved the song so well,
Do you not hear the throstle’s note?
Nor heed the lovesome light that fell
As warm five thousand years ago, when Solomon, the wise king, wrote?

“Sweet,” wrote he. Yes, the light is sweet!
And maddening sweet to walk in Spring:
Yet is the pleasure incomplete--
How should the living understand the melodies that dead throats sing?

Thinker and poet clutch in vain
The secret of a laughing rill,
And Shakespeare’s self could never gain
The message blown so mockingly by trumpet of a daffodil.

Dear lad, for you I will not call,
Nor let a foolish dread be born.
A thousand years is still too small
To learn the secrets you must learn, ere you arise on Doomsday morn.

For you have set your ear to earth
To list the growing of the flowers:
And catch the strains of Death and Birth:
And take the honey that is stored by all the flitting bee-like hours.

And you must put to memory
The silver music of the stars
That raineth down so silently,
And all the mighty harmony scrolled on the sky in glittering bars.

The music that no man can make,
The colours that he cannot see,
These out of darkness you shall take
And nourish up your growing soul with manna of their mystery.

And then when you awake again
(And I have slept a little too),
How we shall rise to pace anew
An earth--where every dream is true, and nothing is unknown but pain.

DEFIANCE

I saw the orchards whitening
To Easter in late Lent.
Now struck of hell’s own lightning
With branches broken and bent
Behold the tall trees rent:--
Beaten with iron rain!
And ever in my brain
To every shell that’s sent
Sounds back this small refrain:--
“You foolish shells, come kill me,
Blacken my limbs with flame:
I saw the English orchards
(And so may die content)
All white before I came!”

THE ORCHARDS, THE SEA, AND THE GUNS

Of sounds which haunt me, these
Until I die
Shall live. First the trees,
Swaying and singing in the moonless night.
(The wind being wild)
And I
A wakeful child,
That lay and shivered with a strange delight.

Second--less sweet but thrilling as the first--
The midnight roar
Of waves upon the shore
Of Rossall dear:
The rhythmic surge and burst
(The gusty rain
Flung on the pane!)
I loved to hear.

And now another sound
Wilder than wind or sea,
When on the silent night
I hear resound
In mad delight
The guns....
They bark the whole night through;
And though I fear,
Knowing what work they do,
I somehow thrill to hear.

DYING IN SPRING

Lo, now do I behold
Sunshine and greenery
And Death together rolled--
Yet not in mockery.

Life was a faithful friend;
Shall I make other of that dark brother
Whom God doth send?

My dear companions--you
That have been more to me
Than grief or gaiety--
This sure is true:
That we shall meet once more beyond Death’s door,
Again be merry friends
Where friendship never ends.

VICTORY

Whether you shall see it, or I,
We cannot tell
Now. And it doesn’t matter.

For ’twill come when Hell
Is covered, and the batter
Of guns fades:--Victory!

Remember then, you who have fellowed the dead--
Though the worst loudest last
Thunder before the sun--

Remember--though the Hun
And his brute power has passed--
There are more wars to be won!

Oh! while life’s Life, to all Eternity:--
Brothers, press on! Go On To VICTORY!

DEATH THE REVEALER

Within this dim five-windowed house of sense
I watch through coloured glass
The shapes that pass.
Soon must I journey hence
To meet the great winds of the outer world,
And see
(When God has turned the key)
The true and terrible colours of His scheme
Which now I dream.

F. W. H.

(_A Portrait_)

A thick-set, dark-haired, dreamy little man,
Uncouth to see,
Revolving ever this preposterous plan--
Within a web of words spread cunningly
To tangle Life--no less,
(Could he expect success!)

Of Life, he craves not much, except to watch.
Being forced to act,
He walks behind himself, as if to catch
The motive:--an accessory to the fact,
Faintly amused, it seems,
Behind his dreams.

Yet hath he loved the vision of this world,
And found it good:
The Faith, the fight ’neath Freedom’s flag unfurled,
The friends, the fun, the army-brotherhood.
But faery-crazed or worse
He twists it all to verse!

POETRY

The poems of Earth are lived,
Not scratched with the dirty pen.
They are writ in the sense of things
And sung in the hearts of men.

Sensuous strains of Spring
Pouring in silver flood,
Summer’s golden delight
Warming the waiting blood.

Colour, and scent, and sound
Of all the changing year:--
These are the poems of Earth
Which every man must hear.

Sorrow, and pain, and love,
Joy, and fear, and regret:--
These are the burning poems
That all our hearts beget.

These are the poems of Earth
That every man must pen:
Which you and I make up
And straight forget again.

PROSE POEMS

1. HEAVEN

“Take me, then,” he said to the angel, “upon this great journey to Heaven.”

The angel touched his eyelids.

“Where, then, is Hell?” asked the man.

The spirit pointed out a bored-looking man quite near the throne.

“But he is in Heaven,” protested the mortal.

“Even so, but he does not know it,” replied the angel.

2. THE MOTH

“It is the brightness of God!” exclaimed the moth, beholding the candle.

“But it will scorch you worse than Hell’s fire,” warned a friendly insect.

“What matter that?” shouted the moth. “It is the brightness of God!”

Then it flew into the flame and was shrivelled.

3. THE ARTIST

“I am tired of failing!” said the Artist, and he ripped up the picture with his penknife.

“Now he will remember my love!” thought the woman, and she smiled. But when the Artist saw the smile on her face, he took his brushes and made a picture of it, and the love of the woman was forgotten.

4. THE WINDOW GLASS

Against the dark glass shone like a flower the mouth of his beloved. But in vain he pressed lips of fire upon the panes--in vain!

“Then, since Love may not melt,” cried he, “shatter, O Death!”

God broke the window with His fist.

5. IN THE FIELD OF TIME

In the field of Time, at the end of the path of daisies, grow flaming poppies, taking the eye more readily than the flowers of gold and white.

But a man, looking at some he had plucked to wear, discovered (formed by the inside shape and hue of the petals) a black cross at the bottom of every scarlet cup, and cast them from him.

6. BLUE GRASS

“Is not this the mountain of blue grass?” asked the stranger. “Why is the grass as green as in our common meadows?”

“It was never any other colour,” said the native.

“It looked blue from afar,” protested the traveller, “and I have journeyed a long and difficult way to find it.”

“You had better have stayed at home,” answered the native.

“No,” returned the stranger, with a sad smile, “I had better have come, but now I will go home. The grass there has become blue.”

7. THE POET

“What is that lovely thing you have in your heart? Why do you not sing of it?” asked the Muse.

“I have not yet lost it,” answered the Poet.

8. SORROW

The lean dagger had gone into the Poet’s heart.

Shuddering, he plucked it free, lest he should die. And then--by magic--it became in his hand a shining sword fit to smite down the sorrow of the world.

9. THE MIRACLE

Why has the Earth taken on a new significance?

Why is the smoking mist now white music, and the world’s architecture more wonderful than a fine cathedral?

It is something that has happened in your heart.

Perhaps (I do not know) you have learnt to hate yourself or to love a fellow-being.

10. FAITH

Why am I so many men?
It is because you have not Faith.

What is Faith?
Faith is a fire.

But how does a man come by it?
Perhaps God gives it him.

11. TIME--THE HORSE

Whither does Time trot us? And is moonlight brightening the harness buckles as when children play beneath the rugs, guessing “Where are we?” and father drives home--home--beneath the stars?

12. THE REBUILDING OF REALITY

“Behold the sunshine, the green earth, the shining sea!” shouted my Eyes.

Said Heart: “Oh, I cannot; the realities I knew are gone! Death’s shadow is upon all this.”

“Well, it is yours to create realities anew,” smiled Death. “Hitherto (like the rest) you seem to have done it badly.”

13. THE TOKEN

Because of you I am insatiably curious about death.

Because of Him who imagined and made you I am able tranquilly to abide the time.

Shrivelled in His glory: scorched by His humour: because He has imagined and made you, I trust and am sure.

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED.
BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST., S.E., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.