The Soldier
Here in the noisy night
Is his delight.
Where maxims pour
Their thudding lead
Upon the ground
And on the shore.
He revels in the sound,
And lies among the dead.
Here where the sniper lies
Beneath the skies
In hungry wait;
And gasping shells
Disgorge red death.
This is his fate:
To love war’s rhythmic breath,
And war’s discordant knells.
Here on the parapet
His foes he met.
See where they sleep
In battered lines.
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poem by Leon Gellert
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Lost!
A moon upon a moonlit sea
To me thou art;
And every shining part
Of heaven belong to thee;
And in my deepest dreams
Those little timid beams
Come down to me.
Art as a faintly perfumed flower
In perfumed glades;
And in the sombre shades
At every falling shower
Of rain, or shroud of dew,
Each broken, blistered willow knew
A fragrant power.
And yet thou art a woman too
No less then these;
Thou art by lands and seas
A woman that I knew.
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poem by Leon Gellert
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Red
Place that bayonet in my hand,
And fill this pouch with lead;
Show me the blood and leave me, and let me
Stand
By my dead.
Cover those staring eyes and go
And stab in the red, red rain.
Show me that blood and leave me. They groan
In the snow.
With the pain.
Cover his head with a scarlet cloak,
And run to your scarlet strife,
Show me that blood and leave me, where white
Snows choke
Out the life.
Turn his face to the sanguine skies,
The skies where the red stars move.
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poem by Leon Gellert
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Acceptance
Beside the doors of a keen-lighted hall
I paused, and quite by chance
I noticed Love
Smiling and tall;
And then I heard the whirling dance,
And saw the dismal skies above.
She called to me to know her yet again,
And know her pale sad friend,
Solemn with tears;
Her friend was Pain.
I moved away, but in the end
Returned, fearing the empty years.
And I, who thought to scoff, and had so planned,
I took Love’s fevered arm,
And felt Pain’s breath.
I took Love’s hand,
And kissed its shining palm,
And saw beyond the silent face of Death.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Patience
Red! Red! Red!
Is there no black?
Red like the bloody earth, this pack!
Knaves! Kings! Queens!- all red!
Where are the black?
Shuffle again!
Will not the other cards come back?
The only cards to clear the brain!
Dear God, ‘twill crack!
Shuffle again!
Red! Red! Red!
Black! Black! Black!
Is there no red?
Has all the blood on earth been shed?
Each Queen! Each King! and every Jack!
Where are the red?
Shuffle again!
Has blood within the world all bled?
The millions mourning for the slain?
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poem by Leon Gellert
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The Three Concerned
The Man
He lies forgotten 'neath the watching skies,
the blood upon his bayonet scarlet bright;
the red moon shining in his glazed eyes,
the 'Last Post' crying, crying in the night.
The Woman
She proudly sits within her home of gloom,
and reads and reads his lines with wistful smile,
then, eyes aglisten, seeks the empty room
(and he within his bloody grave the while.)
The Child
His wooden war-horse stands beside his bed,
his tiny pillow holds a head of gold.
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poem by Leon Gellert
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Lemnos Visited
Oh Peace! The Peace I knew. I thought thee dead!
And had not hoped again to see thy smile.
I deemed thee dead, but thou hadst only fled,
And his they face within a Grecian isle.
The sun that rises in the early morn
Now gilds these purple hills with golden light.
The land of Lemnos hath not felt the thorn
Of thoughtless war.. It hath a calm delight
In waving fields, a lazy grinding mill,
In winding shores, a drowsy lapping sea;
A humble church upon a dreaming hill;
A sleeping silence and a home for thee.
But let us not molest the bloodless reign,
Lest fields of flowers change to fields of pain.
poem by Leon Gellert
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A Night Attack
Be still. The bleeding night is in suspense
Of watchful agony and coloured thought,
And every beating vein and trembling sense,
Long-tired with time, is pitched and overwrought.
And for the eye,
The darkness holds strange forms.
Soft movements in the leaves, and wicked glows
That wait and peer. The whole black landscape
swarms
With shapes of white and grey that no one knows;
And for the ear, a sound, a pause, a breath.
The hand has touched the slimy face of death.
The mind is raking at the ragged past.
……A sound of rifles rattles from the south,
and startled orders move from mouth to mouth.
poem by Leon Gellert
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One who Died: In Memory of E.W.T.S.
I mind they told me on a noisy hill
I sat and disbelieved, and shook my head:
“Impossible! Impossible! but still
these other men have died, and others bled”.
Knees clasped, I sat and thought, unheeding war.
The trees, the winds, the streets came back to me;
The laughter of his eyes, his home afar,
The memory of his hopes, his buoyancy,
His dreams, his jests, his moods of wistfulness,
The quaintness of his speech, his favourite song;
And this, -and this the end so pitiless!
The man we knew! The man we knew so long!
- To die-be dead-not move, and this was he!
I rose and oiled my rifle musingly.
poem by Leon Gellert
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A Book of Wordsworth
Thy talks on God, and glories of His fields
Are woven into my unworthy past.
The fragments of thy thoughts my memory yields
Grow dim at times, and yet they seem to last.
This little book of verses, covered red,
A gift to me, a gift of quiet rest,
Is filled with soothing words that thou hast said;
Some chosen thoughts, the wisest and the best;-
Sweet songs and gleanings from that inward eye;
The noise of bees the wind in daffodils;
The splendour of the sea and of the sky;
And Nature standing on the silent hills.
They words, thy thoughts, for me can never cease
To have that flavour of eternal peace.
poem by Leon Gellert
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