I should like to imagine

A moonlight in which there would be no machine-guns!

For, it is possible

To come out of a trench or a hut or a tent or a church all in ruins:

To see the black perspective of long avenues

All silent.

The white strips of sky

At the sides, cut by the poplar trunks:

The white strips of sky

Above, diminishing—

The silence and blackness of the avenue

Enclosed by immensities of space

Spreading away

Over No Man’s Land …

For a minute …

For ten …

There will be no star shells

But the untroubled stars,

There will be no Very light

But the light of the quiet moon

Like a swan.

And silence …

Then, far away to the right thro’ the moonbeams

“Wukka Wukka” will go the machine-guns,

And, far away to the left

And sharply,

Wuk … Wuk … and then silence

For a space in the clear of the moon.

I should like to imagine

A moonlight in which the machine-guns of trouble

Will be silent …

Do you remember, my dear

Long ago, on the cliffs, in the moonlight,

Looking over to Flatholme

We sat … Long ago! …

And the things that you told me…

Little things in the clear of the moon,

The little, sad things of a life …

We shall do it again

Full surely,

Sitting still, looking over a Flatholme.

Then, far away to the right

Shall sound the Machine Guns of trouble

And, far away to the lft, under Flatholme,

I wonder, my dear, can you stick it?

As we could say: “Stick it, the Welch!”

In the dark of the moon,

Going over …