Weary gyves. What were you But a word in the brain’s ways, Or the sleep of Circe’s swine? One gyve holds you yet. It held you hiddenly on the Somme Tied from my heart at home: O must it loosen now? I wish You were bound with the old, old gyves. Love! You love me—your eyes Have looked through death at mine. You have tempted a grave too much. I let you—I repine. SOLDIER: TWENTIETH CENTURY I love you, great new Titan! Am I not you? Napoleon and Cæsar Out of you grew. Out of unthinkable torture, Eyes kissed by death, Won back to the world again, Lost and won in a breath, Cruel men are made immortal. Out of your pain born, They have stolen the sun’s power With their feet on your shoulders worn. Let them shrink from your girth, That has outgrown the pallid days When you slept like Circe’s swine Or a word in the brain’s ways. THE JEW Moses, from whose loins I sprung, Lit by a lamp in his blood Ten immutable rules, a moon For mutable lampless men. The blonde, the bronze, the ruddy, With the same heaving blood, Keep tide to the moon of Moses. Then why do they sneer at me? THE DYING SOLDIER “Here are houses,” he moaned, “I could reach, but my brain swims.” Then they thundered and flashed, And shook the earth to its rims. “They are gunpits,” he gasped, “Our men are at the guns. Water!... Water!... Oh, water! For one of England’s dying sons.” “We cannot give you water, Were all England in your breath.” “Water!... Water!... Oh, water!” He moaned and swooned to death. DEAD MAN’S DUMP The plunging limbers over the shattered track Racketed with their rusty freight, Stuck out like many crowns of thorns, And the rusty stakes like sceptres old To stay the flood of brutish men Upon our brothers dear.