POETRY.
DERELICT OF THE WAR. THE NEURASTHENIC.
SERVING the King and God ; within the fields of Flanders and the plains of France,
Where tortured bodies fell and souls were shattered ; abashed by sound of gun and crash of shell, Assailed and shocked by smell of fetid things and blood ; appalled, indeed, yet constant Alike to old tradition, to oath and cause and task, I held my place, until One greater crash, and then for me, just whirling, helpless darkness.
God and the King were served, and I was dead.
Dead ? No, not dead, but wrecked and broken ; manhood and mind unstrung ; Alive ? Ah yes—but weak and halting equally in will, in faith, in hope.
Too prone to tears, too frail again to pit myself against the world ; Inconstant in my moods, holding myself in sorrow and in sore contempt, And dreading, as one dreads the flame, the pity and the scorn of those Who did not stand within the field, or standing, felt no blast, endured no lasting hurt.
And now—God shield my nerves and hold my soul until I stand within that other place Which harbours neither fire nor sword nor blood nor death, nor heedless pity ; But only peace and calm and light and strength and—perfect understanding.
W. A. APPLETON.
Previous page
