Standing By
(DESOLATORY REFLECTIONS)
O spirit of my Fate keen-eyed, firm-lipped!
Thou lead’st me not to pleasant places, dipt
Rich in gold of setting suns, where dance
Slim sylphs in silken draperies, who glance
With luring elfish eyes as they flit away—
Their white limbs twinkling in the gloom; or say
(For vision lags) to those dim aisles of Faerie
Where my craving soul would fain be led:
Ah! no. Thou hurriest me to fields where dead
Glue piteous eyes on me, each eye a curse!
Relentless Fate, thou drivest on, steel-lipped!—
And I rebel!—with frantic passion gript,
Shrinking from lurid horrors that I see
Revealed, in stark display, awaiting me!
And War I do curse! and gruesome, ogling death!
O you! condemn me not with scorning breath,
Who sit at home secure, in cushioned ease
At peace, penning glib sonnets wrought to please,
On War, and Pain, and Heaven and Sacrifice,
Saying, “ He who for his country dies
Is blest! ” and making sestets nobly end
With ' Death!the sweet-toned, ever-welcome
Friend’!
(O Death! sweet welcome Friend! no friend of mine
Art Thou)!
Ah, no! That clear pure sight of thine
Is not in me; I hear no fairy bells
On battlefields, no visions see of wells
Of rest, or hear no inner voice that sings;
Or feel the fluttering of angel wings,
Sheltering around,—but only Death
I see, and Carnage, reeking with nauseous breath,
Leering in War’s hideous company
With gorged Destruction, Lust and Misery!
Oh! I would rather gaze on beauty’s face
In some dim woodland grove, and dreaming, chase
In rich-hued phantasy, all loveliness
Of perfume, form, and sound; and wake to see
The still twilight steal soft and holily
Into the wood, and in the solemn deep
Of eve, when birds and beasts are all asleep
And not a leaf or flower is swaying, feel
The hush of God!
But, ah! I cannot! Steel
And iron and lead and poison gas and blood
Blur my vision, blinding it with mud
Of harsh reality! I see grim sights,
And smell foul smells, and in some awful nights
I see gaunt long-nailed Death with grinning jaws
Stalking, creaking in his joints, with claws
Out-stretched to grip me!
Oh! how can I pen sweet songs
On noble themes, when all I see belongs
To hell? War is no glorious, cleansing thing;
And Death no gentle-mannered Saviour King!—
But off! Begone! This whining piteous fret!
War will not crush me—I am a soldier yet!
Come! Spirit of my Fate, whate’er thou hast
In store for me—where’er my lot is cast
In War’s grim jaws—I’ll strive to face, and fight,
With proud rejoicing reckless might!
And should Death have me in his thumb-smudged Book
Dog-eared and grimy, with unwavering look
I’ll face him to the last and, fighting, fall
With scorn upon my face for Hell and all
Its despicable crew!
But still I pray,
Spirit of my Fate! that thou hast stored away
For me, in some fair peaceful place, a spot
Where Death and War and Pain will be forgot;
And where, alive, dead friends will merry be
‘Mid song-filled homes in Paradise with me.
