I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes
in weary, woeful, waiting times;
and doleful hours of battle-din
ere yet they brought the wounded in;
through vigils of the fateful nights
in lousy barns by candle-light;
and dug-outs, sagging and aflood,
on stretchers stiff and bleared with blood;
by ragged grove, by ruined road,
by hearths accursed where love abode,
by broken altars, blackened shrines
i've tinkered at my bits of rhymes.
I've solaced me with scraps of song
the desolated ways along:
through sickly fields all shrapnel-sown,
and meadows reaped by death alone;
by blazing cross and splintered spire,
by headless virgin in the mire;
by gardens gashed amid their bloom,
by guttered grave, by shattered tomb;
beside the dying and the dead,
where rocket green and rocket red
in trembling pools of poising light,
with flowers of flame festoon the night.
ah me! by what dark ways of wrong
i've cheered my heart with scraps of song.
So here's my sheaf of war-won verse,
and some is bad, and some is worse.
and if at times i curse a bit,
you needn't read that part of it;
for through it all like horror runs
the red resentment of the guns.
and you yourself would mutter when
you took the things that once were men
and sped them through that zone of hate
to where the dripping surgeons wait;
and wonder too if in god's sight
war ever, ever, can be right.
Yet may it not be, crime and war
but efforts misdirected are.
and if there's good in war and crime
there may be in my bits of rhyme,
my songs from out the slaughter mill:
so take or leave them as you will.