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Your cross through flame and hail: Apologia pro Poemate Meo I, too, saw.html">saw God through mud -- war.html">War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, Where death becomes absurd and life absurder. Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder. I, too, have dropped off fear -- And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl, Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul. I have made fellowships -- For love is not the binding of fair lips But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong; Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong. I have perceived much beauty Heard music in the silentness of duty; With them in hell.html">hell the sorrowful dark of hell, And heaven but as the highway for a shell, You shall not hear their mirth: By any jest of mine. These men are worth November 1917. As unremembering how I rose or why, gray.html">Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe, There moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled. Of ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed. By them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped And vanished out of dawn down hidden holes. (And smell came up from those foul openings Brown strings towards strings of gray, with bristling spines, Ramped on the rest and ate them and were eaten. I saw their bitten backs curve, loop, and straighten, I reeled and shivered earthward like a feather. And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan. Its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further, .

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