Part 17

We sat an' watched th' dancin' fire fling Its shadders on th' floor-- Bright shapes, an' dim. An' then Jim coughed as if his throat was sore, An'--"Say--let's sing!" Says Jim.

FROM THE DECK OF A TRANSPORT

(A Returning Soldier Speaks)

I am coming back with a singing soul through the surge of the splendid sea, Coming back to the land called home, and the love that used to be-- I am coming back through a flash of spray, through a conquered tempest's hum, I am coming back, I am coming back.... But, God, do I want to come?

I have heard the shriek of the great shells speak to the dawn of a flaming day; And a growling gun when the fight was won, and the twilight flickered gray, I have seen men die with their chins raised high, and a curse that was half a prayer-- I have fought alone when a comrade's groan was tense on the blinding air.

I have tramped a road when a burning load was strapped to my aching back, Through miles of mud that was streaked with blood, when my closing eyes turned back-- I have cried aloud to a heedless crowd of a God that they could not know, And have knelt at night when the way was bright with a rocket's sullen glow.

I am going home through the whirling foam--home to her arms stretched wide-- I am going back to the beaten track and the sheltered fireside, With gasping breath I have sneered at death, and have mocked at a shell's swift shirr, And safe again, through the years of pain, I am going back--to HER!

I am coming back with a singing soul through the surge of the splendid sea, Coming back--BUT MY SINGING SOUL WILL NEVER BE QUITE FREE-- For I have killed, and my heart has thrilled to the call of the battle hum.... I am coming back to the used-to-be--But, God, do I want to come?

TIM--MY BUNKIE

I met Tim th' other day On Broadway; Hadn't seem him since he fell, Covered like with streaks of blood, In th' Argonne's battle hell.

Tim an' me was bunkies; we Marched together Through th' water an' th' slime-- SUNNY FRANCE, HEY? We seen weather That we hadn't dreamed COULD be Anywhere or any time. We had fought--well, hand to hand, Over miles o' broken land, Through th' Vesle, an' by th' Aisne, When th' shrapnel fell like rain-- Tim an' me was bunkies--see?

Smilin' sort o' cuss was Tim; Never seen th' beat o' him! He could whistle when a pack Was like lead upon his back; He could smile with blistered feet; Never swore at monkey meat, Or at cooties, or th' drill; Always laughin'--never still-- That was Tim!

Say, th' fellers loved that boy! Chaplain said that he "was joy All incarnate--" Sounds all right, But th' men said he was WHITE, That meant most to us, I'd say! Why, we never seen th' day When he wouldn't help a guy. If he had a franc he'd buy Chocolate or chow for us, Gen'rus little smilin' cuss-- That was Tim!

When THEY got him, I can see Even now, th' way he slipped To th' ground beside o' me. Red blood dripped From his tunic an' his chin, But he choked out, "Fellers, win! "Me, I don't much matter, GRIN!"

Sure we had ter leave him lay; War is always that-a-way; An' we thought o'course he'd die. Maybe that's the reason why We could fight th' way we did; Why we found th' guns THEY hid; Why we broke their line in two, Whistlin' a tune HE knew All th' time we pushed 'em back, Crowdin' on 'em whack fer whack!

I seen Tim th' other day On Broadway; He had lef' one arm in France, But his eyes was all a-dance When he seen me face t' face. "Say," he shouts, "ain't this SOME place? Ain't it great th' war is through? Glad I seen it, though; ain't you?"

Smilin' sort o' little cuss, Meetin' me without a fuss-- Tim, my bunkie, livin'!... Tim! That's him!

A PRAYER FOR OUR BOYS RETURNING

God, bring them back just as they went away; A little wiser, maybe, but unchanged In all the vital things--let them today Take up the lives that war has disarranged. Let them renew the youth they laid aside To fight their battles in the world of men, God, bring to life their little dreams that died, And build their altars new again, and then--

Give them the vivid youth that they have sought for Through bloody mists on bloody fields of strife; Show them the gallant truth that they have fought for; Show them, anew, the better things of life. God of the hosts, blot out the months of pain-- And let them have their boyhood back again. AMEN.

PARIS

I. AFTER PEACE

The city thrills once more to joyous singing; Glad laughter sounds again upon the street, And music throbs again, until young feet Trip merrily upon their way; the ringing Of hour chimes are gallant voices, flinging Their challenges through each crowded space, to greet Old friends who linger where they used to meet With other friends long gone.... The summer, bringing

The light of peace, has seemed to fill the city, With happiness that echoes far and wide In sounds of joy; there seems no room for sorrow-- Yet, like a minor chord submersed in pity, There steals above the music of tomorrow, The weary footsteps of the ones who died.

II. THE RUE DE LA PAIX--(A STREET OF JEWELS)

The windows glow with many jewels, with rubies fire-entangled, And glowing bits of emerald, and diamonds like the dew-- But, Paris, can you quite forget the bodies lying mangled Beneath the snow on Flanders fields--your lost who call to you?).

The windows of each little shop are gay with gem- like laughter, With rings to fit milady's hand, and drops to deck her ear; (But, Paris, can you quite forget Verdun, and Ypres, and--after? And, far beneath the sounds of mirth, one wonders what you hear.)

The windows glow with countless jewels, the shop- girls stop to wonder, The little shopgirls who are still, so many, dressed in black-- (But, oh, the saddened hearts of them no doubt are lying under Some sandy stretch along the Marne, where grim defeat turned back!)