I wonder if it’s harder to make big shells at a bench, Than to face the screaming beggars when they’re crumping up a trench; I wonder if it’s harder to sing in mellow tones Of danger, than to face it--say, in a wood like Trone’s; Is discipline skilled labour, or something children play? Should the maximum of danger mean the minimum of pay? TO THE DEVIL ON HIS APPALLING DECADENCE Satan, old friend and enemy of man; Lord of the shadows and the sins whereby We wretches glimpse the sun in Virtue’s sky Guessing at last the wideness of His plan Who fashioned kid and tiger, slayer and slain, The paradox of evil, and the pain Which threshes joy as with a winnowing fan: Satan, of old your custom ’twas at least To throw an apple to the soul you caught Robbing your orchard. You, before you wrought Damnation due and marked it with the beast, Before its eyes were e’en disposed to dangle Fruitage delicious. And you would not mangle Nor maul the body of the dear deceased. But you were called familiarly “Old Nick”-- The Devil, yet a gentleman you know! Relentless--true, yet courteous to a foe. Man’s soul your traffic was. You would not kick His bloody entrails flying in the air. Oh, “Krieg ist Krieg,” we know, and “C’est la guerre!” But Satan, don’t you feel a trifle sick? AT AFTERNOON TEA (TRIOLET) We have taken a trench Near Combles, I see, Along with the French. We have taken a trench. (_Oh, the bodies, the stench!_) Won’t you have some more tea? We have taken a trench Near Combles, I see. TO THE UNKNOWN NURSE Moth-like at night you flit or fly To where the other patients lie; I hear, as you brush by my door The flutter of your wings, no more. Shall I now call you in and see The phantom vanish instantly? Perhaps some sixteen stone or worse, Suddenly falling through my verse! Nay, be you sour, or be you sweet, I’d see you not. Life’s wisdom is To keep one’s dreams. Oh never quiz The lovely lady in the street! I knew a man who went large-eyed And happy, till he bought pince-nez And saw things as they were. He died --A pessimist--the other day. THE HORSES My father bred great horses, Chestnut, grey, and brown. They grazed about the meadows, And trampled into town. They left the homely meadows And trampled far away, The great shining horses, Chestnut, and brown, and grey. Gone are the horses That my father bred. And who knows whither?... Or whether starved or fed?... Gone are the horses, And my father’s dead. MOTHER AND SON “Bow-wow! Bow-wow!” See how he bounds and prances, “_Wow!_” races off, returns again and dances-- A little wave of sunshine and brown fur-- About his old rheumatic mother-cur. Look how she gives him back his baby bite Tenderly as a human mother might.