Classic Poem

Darkness was bad as weariness, till Grimes said,
“We've got to have a fire.” But in that case
The match must sputter and the flame glare red
On nothing beautiful, and set no seal of grace
On any dead man's face.

And when the flames roared, when the sparks dartled
And quenched in the black sea that closed us round,
I looked at Grimes my dear comrade and startled
His look, blue-bright—and under it a wound
Which bled upon the ground.

“They got you? I have only lost a hat,
I would have sold the affair for three thin dimes,
But they have stuck your side. It must be looked at
And mended.” “No, it's an old puncture,” says Grimes,
“Which takes to bleeding sometimes.”

“Why, Grimes, I never knew your mortal blood
Had wasted for my sake in scarlet streams,
And no word said. A curse on my manhood
If I knew anything! This is my luck which seems
Worse than my evillest dreams.”

But when I would have comforted his white flesh
With ointment and flowing water, he said then,
“Get away. Go work on the corpses if you wish,
Prop their heads up again, wrap their bones in,
For they were good pious men.

“But as for me, I have the devil's desire
For delicate tobacco in my pipe, and leisure
To stretch my toes in comfort by this fire.
Amuse yourself then some way, find some pleasure
Sleeping, or digging a treasure.”

I could not find it. It was too melancholy
Sitting by Grimes my fortress who reared his head
Breached in the left wall, and subsiding slowly
To the defunctive posture of the stained dead
That now not even bled.

I would not weep, and like a desperado
Kicked on the carcasses of our enemies
To heave them into the darkness; but my bravado
Quailed in the scorn of Grimes; for even these
Were fit for better courtesies.

Blue blazed the eyes of Grimes in the old manner,—
The flames of eyes which jewel the head of youth
Were strange in the leathery phiz of the old campaigner,—
Smoke and a dry word crackled from his mouth
And the wind ferried them South.