(To The Men Of The 2/5 Gloucester Regiment)

It’s a King’s life, a life fit for a King! To lie safe sheltered in some old hay-loft Night long, on golden straw, and warm and soft, Unroused; to hear through dreams dawn’s thrushes sing “Revally”--drowse again; then wake to find The bright sun through the broken tiles thick-streaming. “Revally” real: and there’s an end to dreaming. “Up, Boys, and Out!” Then O what green, what still Peace in the orchard, deep and sweet and kind, Shattered abruptly--splashing water, shout On shout of sport, and cookhouse vessels banging, Dixie against dixie musically clanging.-- The farmer’s wife, searching for eggs, ’midst all Dear farmhouse cries. A stroll: and then “Breakfast’s up.” Porridge and bacon! Tea out of a real cup (Borrowed). First day on Rest, a Festival Of mirth, laughter in safety, a still air. “No whizzbangs,” “crumps” to fear, nothing to mind, Danger and the thick brown mud behind, An end to wiring, digging, end to care. Now wonders begin, Sergeants with the crowd Mix; Corporals, Lance-Corporals, little proud, Authority forgotten, all goes well In this our Commonwealth, with tales to tell, Smokes to exchange, letters of price to read, Letters of friends more sweet than daily bread. The Sergeant-major sheathes his claws and lies Smoking at length, content deep in his eyes. Officers like brothers chaff and smile-- Salutes forgotten, etiquette the while, Comrades and brothers all, one friendly band. Now through the orchard (sun-dried of dewfall) in And out the trees the noisy sports begin. He that is proud of body runs, leaps, turns Somersaults, hand-turns; the licensed jester flings Javelins of blunt wit may bruise not pierce; Ragtimes and any scrap of nonsense sings. All’s equal now. It’s Rest, none cares, none escapes The hurtless battering of those kindly japes. Noon comes, the estaminets open welcome doors, Men drift along the roads in three and fours, Enter those cool-paven rooms, and sit Waiting; many there are to serve, Madame Forces her way with glasses, all ignores The impatient clamour of that thirsty jam, The outcries, catcalls, queries, doubtful wit, Alike. Newspapers come, “Journal, m’sieur?” “What’s the news?” “Anything fresh, boy?” “Tell us what’s new.” Dinner, perhaps a snooze, perhaps a stroll. Tea, letters (most like), rations to divide (Third of a loaf, half, if luck’s our way). No work, no work, no work! A lovely day! Down the main street men loiter side by side. So day goes on blue-domed till the west’s afire With the sun just sunken, though we cannot see, Hidden in green, the fall of majesty. Our hearts are lifted up, fierce with desire But once again to see the ricks, the farms, Blue roads, still trees of home in the rich glow; Life’s pageant fading slower and more slow Till Peace folds all things in with tender arms. The last stroll in the orchard ends, the last Candles are lit in bivvy and barn and cart, Where comrades talking lie, comfort at heart, Gladder for danger shared in the hard past, The stars grow bright ’gainst Heaven’s still-deepening blue, Lights in the orchard die. “I wonder how Mother is keeping: she must be sleepy now As we, yet may be wondering all night through.”