At Vieille Chapelle
"At Vieille Chapelle there was a furious encounter in a cemetery."
BURYING, burying
Clods are we, clods we toss.
The children weave flower garlands in the sun
For this or that dead one
Or make a cross,
While we are burying.
Listening, listening,
The dead men heard the battle overhead.
The gravestones fell in ruins to the ground–
Beneath, more dead we found.
Fighting on, fighting on,
The rest passed by–or halted here–
We buried two, up in the graveyard there.
German and French they were.
Pitiless, merciless,
But well-matched, too, they cut and thrust,
Until they reached that little cottage door–
They never came out more.
Lying so–buried so–
I sometimes think, at night, of how they must
Hate still, and struggle to arise
Death-fury in their eyes.
Side by side, side by side,
Surely they would not, think you, rest in peace?
Too near was dug each grave.
Eh bien, they both were brave!
