Corporal Stare

Back from the line one night in June,
I gave a dinner at Bethune,
Seven courses, the most gorgeous meal
Money could buy or batman steal.
Five hungry lads welcomed the fish
With shouts that nearly cracked the dish;
Asparagus came with tender tops,
Strawberries in cream, and mutton chops.
Said Jenkins, as my hand he shook,
"They'll put this in the history book."
We bawled Church anthems in choro
Of Bethlehem and Hermon snow,
With drinking songs, a jolly sound
To help the good red Pommard round.
Stories and laughter interspersed,
We drowned a long La Bassée thirst,
Trenches in June make throats damned dry.
Then through the window suddenly,
Badge, stripes and medals all complete,
We saw him swagger up the street,
Just like a live man, Corporal Stare!
Stare! Killed last May at Festubert.
Caught on patrol near the Boche wire,
Tom horribly by machine-gun fire!
He paused, saluted smartly, grinned,
Then passed away like a puff of wind,
Leaving us blank astonishment.
The song broke, up we started, leant
Out of the window, nothing there,
Not the least shadow of Corporal Stare,
Only a quiver of smoke that showed
A fag-end dropped on the silent road.

Robert von Ranke Graves

Robert von Ranke Graves was a British poet, historical novelist, critic, and classicist. His father was Alfred Perceval Graves, a distinguished Irish poet and figure in the Gaelic revival. Known for his war poetry, love poems, and scholarly works, he created a lasting literary legacy, including his interpretations of the Greek myths. Graves was also a soldier in World War I, an experience that profoundly influenced his writing.

Robert von Ranke Graves

The Troll's Nosegay

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

In The Wilderness

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

The Patchwork Bonnet

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

The Cupboard.

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

English

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Robert von Ranke Graves

Killed

Lieutenant Keen was "great," and yet
He would look over the parapet;
And something smacked him in the head,
And he lay down as dead as dead.

He sluttered down, all proud and grim,
And we set to and buried him;
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To Any Dead Officer

Well, how are things in Heaven? I wish you'd say,
Because I'd like to know that you're all right.
Tell me, have you found everlasting day,
Or been sucked in by everlasting night?
For when I shut my eyes your face shows pain;
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That's all washed out now. You're beyond the wire:
No earthly chance can send you crawling back;
You've finished with machine-gun fire -
Knocked over in a hopeless dud-attack.

Somehow I always thought you'd get done in,
...

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Afternoon Tea

As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea;
Cows weren't allowed in the trenches - got out of the habit, y'see.)
As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten:
"Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em." And he sprang to the head of the men.
Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, and he fell on his face with a slam. . . .
Oh, he died like a true British soldier, and the last word he uttered was "Damn!"
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He fell in victory's fierce pursuit,
    Holed through and through with shot,
A sabre sweep had hacked him deep
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The potman cannot well recall,
    The ostler never knew,
Whether his day was Malplaquet,
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But there he hangs for tavern sign,
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Raised high above the hayseed world
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He sees the churchyard slabs beyond,
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A Waterloo Ballad.

To Waterloo, with sad ado,
And many a sigh and groan,
Amongst the dead, came Patty Head,
To look for Peter Stone.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If I shall find him here?
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My Ninety-Second dear!

"Into our town a sergeant came,
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But quite a foolish step.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If hereabout he lies?
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