[Killed.—“Second Lieutenants unless otherwise stated.”
Arnott, E. E.—Welch Regt.
Jones, E. B. D.—Welch Regt.
Morris, J. H.—Welch Regt.
And 270 other ranks, Welch Regt.
Died of Wounds.
Knapp, O. R.—2nd Lieut. Welch Regt.].
My dears …
The rain drips down on Rouen Town
The leaves drip down
And so the mud
Turns orange brown …
A Zeppelin, we read, has been brought down.
And the obscure brown
Populace of London town
Make a shout of it,
Clamouring for blood
And reductions in the price of food …
But you—at least—are out of it …
Poor little Arnott—poor little lad …
And poor old Knapp,
Of whom once I borrowed a map—and never returned it.
And Morris and Jones … and all the rest of the Welch,
So many gone in the twenty-four hours of a day …
One wonders how one can stay …
One wonders …
For the papers are full of Kelch,
Finding rubbishy news to make a shout of it,
But you at least are out of it.
One wonders how you died …
The mine thunders
Still where you stuck by Welch Alley and turned it …
The mine thunders
Upwards—and branches of trees, mud, and stone,
Skulls, limbs, rats, thistles, the clips
Of cartridges, beef tins and wire
Belch
To the heavens in fire
From the lips
Of the craters where doubtless you died,
With the Cheshires and Wiltshires and Welch
Side by side.
One wonders why you died,
Why were we in it? …
At home we were late on parades,
Seldom there to the minute,
When “B.” were out on Cathays
We didn’t get much of the lectures into the brain …
We talked a good deal about girls.
We could all tell a story
At something past something, Ack Emma!
But why? why? Why were we there from the Aisne to Mametz,
Well—there’s a dilemma …
For we never talked of glory,
We each thought a lot of one girl,
And waited most days for hours in the rain
Till she came:
But we never talked of Fame …
It is very difficult to believe
You need never again
Put in for week-end leave,
Or get vouchers for the 1:10 train
From Cardiff to London …
But so much has the Hun done
In the way of achievements.
And when I think of all the bereavements
Of your mothers and fathers and sweethearts and wives and homes in the West,
And the paths between the willows waiting for your tread,
And the white pillows
Waiting each for a head,
Well … they may go to rest!
And, God help me, if you meet a Hun
In Heaven, I bet you will say, “Well done,
You fought like mad lions in nets
Down by Mametz.”
But we who remain shall grow old,
We shall know the cold
Of cheerless
Winter and the rain of Autumn and the sting
Of poverty, of love despised and of disgraces,
And mirrors showing stained and ageing faces,
And the long ranges of comfortless years
And the long gamut of human fears …
But, for you, it shall be forever spring,
And only you shall be forever fearless,
And only you have white, straight, tireless limbs,
And only you, where the water-lily swims
Shall walk along the pathways, thro’ the willows
Of your west.
You who went West,
And only you on silvery twilight pillows
Shall take your rest
In the soft sweet glooms
Of twilight rooms …