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It seemed
that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull
tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which
titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered
sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be
bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and
stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.
And by his
smile, I knew that sullen hall,
By his dead smile I
knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand pains that
vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there
from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down
the flues made moan.
"Strange friend," I said, "here
is no cause to mourn."
"None," said the other, "save
the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is
yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After
the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm
in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady
running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves
richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men
have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been
left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will
go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil
bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with
swiftness of the tigress,
None will break ranks,
though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine,
and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had
mastery;
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when
much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels
I would
go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with
truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have
poured my spirit without stint
But not through
wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have
bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed,
my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you
frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and
killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now...
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