George Herbert Clarke, ed. (1873–1953). A Treasury of War Poetry. 1917.
Maurice Hewlett
In the Trenches
A
Under the Hunter’s Moon,
My mind ran to the lenches
Cut in a Wiltshire down.
The beeches in the lane,
The gray church in the meadows
And my white cottage—plain.
Under that hot moon’s eye,
Which sees the shells fly screaming
And men and horses die.
Of the horror and the blood,
And what’s her luck, to sunder
The evil from the good?
For how was I to think
With such infernal rumpus
In such a blasted stink?
With t’other. That moon sees
A shrouded German valley
With woods and ghostly trees.
As we have got at home
With poplar-trees aquiver
And clots of whirling foam.
A German and a foe,
Whose gills are turning yellow
As sure as mine are so,
Apparel’d in her gold,
And craves to hear the story
Her frozen lips enfold.
As I do where her shrine
Must fall, he longs as dearly,
With heart as full as mine.