Futility
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ove him into the sun--Gently its touch awoke him once,At home, whispering of fields unsown.Always it woke him, even in France,Until this morning and this snow.If anything might rouse him nowThe kind old sun will know. Think how it wakes the seeds--Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sidesFull-nerved,--still warm,--too hard to stir?Was it for this the clay grew tall?--O what made fatuous sunbeams toilTo break earth's sleep at all? Smile, Smile, Smile Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scannedYesterday's Mail; the casualties (typed small)And (large) Vast Booty from our Latest Haul.Also, they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned;For, said the paper, "When this war is doneThe men's first instinct will be making homes.Meanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes,It being certain war has just begun.Peace would do wrong to our undying dead,--The sons we offered might regret they diedIf we got nothing lasting in their stead.We must be solidly indemnified.Though all be worthy Victory which all bought,We rulers sitting in this ancient spotWould wrong our very selves if we forgotThe greatest glory will be theirs who fought,Who kept this nation in integrity."Nation?--The half-limbed readers did not chafeBut smiled at one another curiouslyLike secret men who know their secret safe.This is the thing they know and never speak,That England one by one had fled to France(Not many elsewhere now save under France).Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week,And people in whose voice real feeling ringsSay: How they smile! They're happy now, poor things. 23rd September 1918.
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