Classic Poem

Aveluy and New Year's Eve, and the time as tender
As if green buds grew. In the low west a slender
Streak of last orange. Guns mostly deadest still.
And a noise of limbers near coming down the hill.
Nothing doing, nothing doing, and a screed to write,
Candles enough for books, a sleepy delight
In the warm dug-out, day ended. Nine hours to the light.
There now and then now, one nestled down snug.
A head is enough to read by, and cover up with a rug.
Electric. Clarinet sang of ‘A Hundred Pipers’
And hush awe mystery vanished like tapers
Of tobacco smoke, there was great hilarity then!
Breath, and a queer tube, magicked sorrow from men.
The North, and all Scott called me—Ballads and Burns again!
Enough! I got up and lit (the last little bit
But one) of candle and poked the remaining fire,
Got some blaze into the cold; sat, wrote verses there . . .
(Or music). The ‘hundred pipers’ had called so plain
(‘And a’) and for three hours stuck it and worked as best
Drippings, and cold, and misery would let desire.