Robert Graves, 'Escape'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

Cross-post from war_poetry:

Escape

("August 6, 1916. Officer previously reported died of wounds, now reported wounded. Graves, Capt. R, Royal Welsh Fusiliers")

...But I was dead, an hour or more:
I woke when I'd already passed the door
That Cerberus guards and half-way down the road
To Lethe, as an old Greek sign-post showed.
Above me, on my stretcher swinging by,
I saw new stars in the sub-terrene sky,
A Cross, a Rose in Bloom, a Cage with Bars,
And a barbed Arrow feathered with fine stars.
I felt the vapours of forgetfulness
Float in my nostrils: Oh, may Heaven bless
Dear Lady Proserpine, who saw me wake
And, stooping over me, for Henna's sake
Cleared my poor buzzing head and sent me back
Breathless, with leaping heart along the track.
After me roared and clattered angry hosts
Of demons, heroes, and policeman-ghosts.
"Life, life! I can't be dead, I won't be dead:
Damned if I'll die for any one," I said...
Cerberus stands and grins above me now,
Wearing three heads, lion and lynx and sow.
"Quick, a revolver! but my Webley's gone,
Stolen... no bombs... no knife... (the crowd swarms on,
Bellows, hurls stones)... not even a honeyed sop...
Nothing... Good Cerberus... Good dog... but stop!
Stay!... a great luminous thought... I do believe
There's still some morphia that I bought on leave."
Then swiftly Cerberus' wide mouths I cram
With Army biscuit smeared with Tickler's jam;
And Sleep lurks in the luscious plum and apple.
He crunches, swallows, stiffens, seems to grapple
With the all-powerful poppy... then a snore,
A crash; the beast blocks up the corridor
With monstrous hairy carcase, red and dun -
Too late: for I've sped through.

O Life! O Sun!

by Robert Graves

Boy and Squirrel, by Juliana Horatia Ewing

[med_cat]

Boy and Squirrel
by
Juliana Horatia Ewing




Oh boy, down there, I can't believe that what they say is true!
We squirrels surely cannot have an enemy in you;
We have so much in common, my dear friend, it seems to me
That I can really feel for you, and you can feel for me.

Some human beings might not understand the life we lead;
If we asked Dr. Birch to play, no doubt he'd rather read;
He hates all scrambling restlessness, and chattering, scuffling noise;
If he could catch us we should fare no better than you boys.

( Fine ladies, too, whose flounces catch and tear on every stump, /What joy have they in jagged pines, who neither skip nor jump? )