The garden waits for something that delays.

There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,—

Not people killed in battle,—they’re in France,—

But horrible shapes in shrouds—old men who died

Slow, natural deaths,—old men with ugly souls,

Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.

* * * * *

You’re quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home;

You’d never think there was a bloody war on!…

O yes, you would… why, you can hear the guns.

Hark! Thud, thud, thud,—quite soft… they never cease—

Those whispering guns—O Christ, I want to go out

And screech at them to stop—I’m going crazy;

I’m going stark, staring mad because of the guns.

68