Shrapnel Green
By Oscar Walters
Do you remember on
Shrapnel Green,
On that far-off bitter
November day,
When the snow lay thick,
and the wind blew keen,
And the blanketed dead in
a lone row lay.
When your gaze went over
the tireless sea,
Where rode the monitors,
grey and grim,
The words you said when
you turned to me.
With voice grown husky,
and eyes grown dim?
You watched for a moment
a ’plane’s swift climb,
And you said, as a great
gun belched its flame:
“Surely to Jesus there’ll
be a time
When men won’t come at
this bloody game!”
Have you forgotten the
words you spoke,
When the dead in their
blankets lay very still,
The words you said in a
voice that broke—
With a monitor searching
for "Beachy Bill,"
And Imbros rising above
the sea,
A fast ’plane sliding
across the sky;
To the left a rattle of
musketry,
And we poor fools in a
world awry,
Pausing awhile in our
bitter task
To wonder vainly what it
could mean?
Have you forgotten, old
mate, I ask,
The prayer you uttered on
Shrapnel Green?
Did you catch a gleam
from a vanished age?
Did you hear an echo from
other years?
Did you catch a murmur of
ancient rage,
And see sad eyes that
were dim with tears?
Did you Bee men light for
an ancient wrong,
As men would fight in the
years to come?
Did you see the galleys
and hear the song
Of victors homing from
Ilium?
What had you seen when
you turned to me?
Whence came the prayer
that I heard you say,
When your gaze went over
the old, old sea,
On that far-off, bitter
November day?
To Shrapnel Green there
has come once more
The quiet dreams that the
great guns broke;
Men have returned to the
ways of yore,
But one remembers the
words you spoke,
With a monitor shelling
along the right,
And shrapnel bursting
above Lone Pine,
And the shell-torn Green
’neath its pall of white,
And the blanketed dead in
a long, still line.
I know not whither your
path has led,
Your name’s forgotten,
but this I know:
The world has need of the
prayer you said
On Shrapnel Green in the
long ago.
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