So I laughed, and felt quite well disposed to the youngster, And shouted out "the top of the morning" to him, And wished him "Good sport!"--and then I remembered My rank, and his, and what I ought to be doing: And I rode nearer, and added, "I can only suppose You have not seen the Commander-in-Chief's order Forbidding English officers to annoy their Allies By hunting and shooting." But he stood and saluted And said earnestly, "I beg your pardon, Sir, I was only going out to shoot a sparrow To feed my cat with." So there was the whole picture, The lovely early morning, the occasional shell Screeching and scattering past us, the empty landscape,-- Empty, except for the young Gunner saluting, And the cat, anxiously watching his every movement. I may be wrong, and I may have told it badly, But it struck _me_ as being extremely ludicrous. _Henry Newbolt_ RHEIMS CATHEDRAL--1914 A wingèd death has smitten dumb thy bells, And poured them molten from thy tragic towers: Now are the windows dust that were thy flower Patterned like frost, petalled like asphodels. Gone are the angels and the archangels, The saints, the little lamb above thy door, The shepherd Christ! They are not, any more, Save in the soul where exiled beauty dwells. But who has heard within thy vaulted gloom That old divine insistence of the sea, When music flows along the sculptured stone In tides of prayer, for him thy windows bloom Like faithful sunset, warm immortally! Thy bells live on, and Heaven is in their tone! _Grace Hazard Conkling_ I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH.... I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air-- I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath-- It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows 't were better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear.... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous. _Alan Seeger_ THE SOLDIER If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.