A Letter Home. (To Robert Graves)

I     Here I'm sitting in the gloom     Of my quiet attic room.     France goes rolling all around,     Fledged with forest May has crowned.     And I puff my pipe, calm-hearted,     Thinking how the fighting started,     Wondering when we'll ever end it,     Back to Hell with Kaiser send it,     Gag the noise, pack up and go,     Clockwork soldiers in a row.     I've got better things to do     Than to waste my time on you.     II     Robert, when I drowse to-night,     Skirting lawns of sleep to chase     Shifting dreams in mazy light,     Somewhere then I'll see your face     Turning back to bid me follow     Where I wag my arms and hollo,     Over hedges hasting after     Crooked smile and baffling laughter,     Running tireless, floating, leaping,     Down your web-hung woods and valleys,     Garden glooms and hornbeam alleys,     Where the glowworm stars are peeping,     Till I find you, quiet as stone     On a hill-top all alone,     Staring outward, gravely pondering     Jumbled leagues of hillock-wandering.     III     You and I have walked together     In the starving winter weather.     We've been glad because we knew     Time's too short and friends are few.     We've been sad because we missed     One whose yellow head was kissed     By the gods, who thought about him     Till they couldn't do without him.     Now he's here again; I've seen     Soldier David dressed in green,     Standing in a wood that swings     To the madrigal he sings.     He's come back, all mirth and glory,     Like the prince in a fairy story.     Winter called him far away;     Blossoms bring him home with May.     IV     Well, I know you'll swear it's true     That you found him decked in blue     Striding up through morning-land     With a cloud on either hand.     Out in Wales, you'll say, he marches     Arm-in-arm with oaks and larches;     Hides all night in hilly nooks,     Laughs at dawn in tumbling brooks.     Yet, it's certain, here he teaches     Outpost-schemes to groups of beeches.     And I'm sure, as here I stand,     That he shines through every land,     That he sings in every place     Where we're thinking of his face.     V     Robert, there's a war in France;     Everywhere men bang and blunder,     Sweat and swear and worship Chance,     Creep and blink through cannon thunder.     Rifles crack and bullets flick,     Sing and hum like hornet-swarms.     Bones are smashed and buried quick.     Yet, through stunning battle storms.     All the while I watch the spark     Lit to guide me; for I know     Dreams will triumph, though the dark     Scowls above me where I go.     You can hear me; you can mingle     Radiant folly with my jingle,     War's a joke for me and you     While we know such dreams are true!