Arras, 1917
I HEAR a rat scurrying
At the end o’ the street
Across the moon-lit stones, hurrying
To dingier retreat—
A ruined house against the moon,
Black like cob-web silhouette—
And the wind runs around
Like a whining hound
Seeking its master,
Faster and faster ;
And I’ll never forget
How chill strikes the moon!
And a heavy sound,
A hollow tread, comes after me—
I never glance around,
But, onward hurrying, flee
From the haunting dread
Of the unknown tread ;
And I hold my breath:
Is it Death?
This is a city desolate ;
It stands, but not inviolate,
A virgin place that rape
Has spoiled in brutish fight
Of soul that, sobbing, seeming dies:
And the black windows gape
Like anguished eyes
In mute horror thro’ the night!
Ah! is the bruisèd spirit fled?
Come! and I will lead thro’ winding thread
Of pulseless streets, blanched with light
Of th’ anaemic moon, coldly bright!
Follow me, and I will lead a quest
Along lone lanes by saintly stones oppressed.
Fear not the shadows! look, how warm
And golden strikes that streak of light
That steals, like ghostly finger form,
Into the heart of night!
Behind that broken barricade
There dwells a man, a woman, and a maid;
They vend their wares all day
In humble, cheery, careless way,
And whisper low of days gone by—
See there, the city’s soul
That pulses on with irresistless roll
To a future, mightier destiny!
And gleams it still in many a dingy hole
Thro’out this sad, sepulchral place!
It breathes in cellar like a mole ;
It smiles with wistful face ;
It walks the silent street;
And you hear its accents in the wandering feet
Of haggard women, trudging to the ground
Where food is to be found!
One day that soul that wails in low lament
In darkness, will arise—renewed and strong—
Jubilant with reincarnate faith—a song
Of triumph from its fiery lips sent
Ringing to the astonished firmament—
Music that will never die,
A swelling, surging song of Liberty!
Martyrdom will cease
And Freedom come again with Peace;
And jostling, hustling throngs,
Singing o’er a hundred wrongs,
Panting, laughing, crying,
Weeping, shouting, sighing
Will rush like rising sea
Into the empty streets, bellowing Victory!
But still the wind runs around
Like a whining hound
Seeking its master,
Faster and faster;
And a heavy sound,
A hollow tread comes after me—
I never glance around,
But, onward hurrying, flee
From the haunting dread
Of the Unknown Tread ;
And I hold my breath:
Is it Death?
