He could see Two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew He was awake, and it again was day-- An August morning, burning to clear blue. The frightened rabbit scuttled.... Far away, A sound of firing.... Up there, in the sky Big dragon-flies hung hovering.... Snowballs burst About them.... Flies and snowballs. With a cry He crouched to watch the airmen pass--the first That he'd seen under fire. Lord, that was pluck-- Shells bursting all about them--and what nerve! They took their chance, and trusted to their luck. At such a dizzy height to dip and swerve, Dodging the shell-fire.... Hell! but one was hit, And tumbling like a pigeon, plump.... Thank Heaven, It righted, and then turned; and after it The whole flock followed safe--four, five, six, seven, Yes, they were all there safe. He hoped they'd win Back to their lines in safety. They deserved, Even if they were Germans.... 'T was no sin To wish them luck. Think how that beggar swerved Just in the nick of time! He, too, must try To win back to the lines, though, likely as not, He'd take the wrong turn: but he couldn't lie Forever in that hungry hole and rot, He'd got to take his luck, to take his chance Of being sniped by foes or friends. He'd be With any luck in Germany or France Or Kingdom-come, next morning.... Drearily The blazing day burnt over him, shot and shell Whistling and whining ceaselessly. But light Faded at last, and as the darkness fell He rose, and crawled away into the night. _Wilfrid Wilson Gibson_ THE WHITE COMRADE (AFTER W.H. LEATHAM'S _The Comrade in White_) Under our curtain of fire, Over the clotted clods, We charged, to be withered, to reel And despairingly wheel When the bugles bade us retire From the terrible odds. As we ebbed with the battle-tide, Fingers of red-hot steel Suddenly closed on my side. I fell, and began to pray. I crawled on my hands and lay Where a shallow crater yawned wide; Then,--I swooned.... When I woke, it was yet day. Fierce was the pain of my wound, But I saw it was death to stir, For fifty paces away Their trenches were. In torture I prayed for the dark And the stealthy step of my friend Who, staunch to the very end, Would creep to the danger zone And offer his life as a mark To save my own. Night fell. I heard his tread, Not stealthy, but firm and serene, As if my comrade's head Were lifted far from that scene Of passion and pain and dread; As if my comrade's heart In carnage took no part; As if my comrade's feet Were set on some radiant street Such as no darkness might haunt; As if my comrade's eyes, No deluge of flame could surprise, No death and destruction daunt, No red-beaked bird dismay, Nor sight of decay.