War is a constant servant.

 

Here is the headstone of a poet;

years and probing ivy have erased

the words that once were written on it.

He wrote much of years and ivy

and the transient sort of things

which he admired; he loved nature

and quiet dawns and winter rain.

He had no contract with his muse:,

she came and went as she pleased.

He was fond of wine and apples and cheese,

and what he learned of life he used

to make his verses, the things he loved

and believed would ultimately prove

to himself what he believed.

 

War is a constant servant.

 

This stone is abandoned by the eyes

of all men, dry, wet or otherwise.

No one comes to this place to see

how death can finally be

so peaceful and so private,

so quiet and inviolate.

 

War is a constant servant.

 

His were the words of a young man;

he understood them all, and

he placed them perfectly in lines,

and punctuated them with mines

which blew the enemy to abstract pieces,

paving all the roads to Paris.

 

War is a constant servant.

 

My friend, my fellow poet, dead

now these many years I would

have caressed your head

and bathed your ragged wounds;

I would have borne your personal effects

back home to your mother, your wife,

the family and friends who wept

profoundly at the ending of your life.

Would I have taken up your gun

there in the setting of the sun,

and faced a death as certain as your own.

The curtain of the gas comes and goes.

And now we are left alone.  

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