Apologia pro Poemate Meo
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, too, saw God through mud--The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child. Merry it was to laugh there--Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.For power was on us as we slashed bones bareNot to feel sickness or remorse of murder. I, too, have dropped off fear--Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon,And sailed my spirit surging, light and clearPast the entanglement where hopes lay strewn; And witnessed exultation--Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl,Shine and lift up with passion of oblation,Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul. I have made fellowships--Untold of happy lovers in old song.For love is not the binding of fair lipsWith the soft silk of eyes that look and long, By Joy, whose ribbon slips,--But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong;Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips;Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong. I have perceived much beautyIn the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;Heard music in the silentness of duty;Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate. Nevertheless, except you shareWith them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,Whose world is but the trembling of a flare,And heaven but as the highway for a shell, You shall not hear their mirth:You shall not come to think them well contentBy any jest of mine. These men are worthYour tears: You are not worth their merriment.
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