Classic and Contemporary Poetry
LOOKING DEATH IN THE FACE, by DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK Poet's Biography First Line: Ay, in thy face, old fellow! Now's the time Last Line: Help me to die. Alternate Author Name(s): Mulock, Dinah Maria Subject(s): Death; Dead, The | ||||||||
AY, in thy face, old fellow! Now's the time. The Black Sea wind flaps my tent-roof, nor wakes These lads of mine, who take of sleep their fill, As if they thought they'd never sleep again, Instead of -- Pitiless Crimean blast, How many a howling lullaby thou'lt raise To-morrow night, all nights till the world's end, Over some sleepers here! Some? -- who? Dumb Fate Whispers in no man's ear his coming doom; Each thinks -- "not I -- not I." But thou, grim Death, I hear thee on the night-wind flying abroad, I feel thee here, squatted at our tent-door, Invisible and incommunicable, Pointing: "Hurrah!" Why yell so in your sleep, Comrade? Did you see aught? Well -- let him dream: Who knows, to-morrow such a shout as this He'll die with. A brave lad, and very like His sister. So! just two hours have I lain Freezing. That pale white star, which came and peered Through the tent-opening, has passed on, to smile Elsewhere, or lost herself i' the dark, -- God knows. Two hours nearer to dawn. The very hour, The very hour and day, a year ago, When we light-hearted and light-footed fools Went jingling idle swords in waltz and reel, And smiling in fair faces. How they'd start, Those dainty red ad white soft faces kind, If they could but behold my visage now, Or his -- or his -- o some poor faces cold We covered up with earth last noon. -- There sits The laidly Thing I felt on our tent-door Two hours back. It has sat and never stirred. I cannot challenge it, or shoot it down, Or grapple with it, as with that young Russ Whom I killed yesterday. (What eyes he had! -- Great limpid eyes, and curling dark-red hair, -- A woman's picture hidden in his breast, -- I never liked this fighting hand to hand.) No, it will not be met like flesh and blood, This shapeless, voiceless, immaterial Thing, Yet I will meet it. Here I sit alone, -- Show me thy face, O Death! There, there. I think I did not tremble. I am a young man; Have done full many an ill deed, left undone Many a good one: lived unto the flesh, Not to the spirit: I would rather live A few years more, and try if things might change. Yet, yet I hope I do not tremble, Death; And that thy finger pointed at my heart But calms the tumult there. What small account The All-living seems to take of this thin flame Which we call life. He sends a moment's blast Out of war's nostrils, and a myriad Of these our puny tapers are blown out Forever. Yet we shrink not, -- we, such frail Poor knaves, whom a spent ball can instant strike Into eternity, -- we helpless fools, Whom a serf's clumsy hand and clumsier sword Smiting -- shall sudden into nothingness Let out that something rare which could conceive A universe and its God. Free, open-eyed, We rush like bridegrooms to Death's grisly arms: Surely the very longing for that clasp Proves us immortal. Immortality Alone could teach this mortal how to die. Perhaps, war is but Heaven's great ploughshare, driven Over the barren, fallow earthly fields, Preparing them for harvest; rooting up Grass, weeds, and flowers, which necessary fall, That in these furrows the wise Husbandman May drop celestial seed. So let us die; Yield up our little lives, as the flowers do; Believing He'll not lose one single soul, -- One germ of His immortal. Naught of His Or Him can perish; therefore let us die. I half remember, something like to this She says in her dear letters. So -- let us die. What, dawn? The faint hum in the trenches fails. Is that a bell i' the mist? My faith, they go Early to matins in Sebastopol! -- A gun! -- Lads, stand to your arms; the Russ is here. Agnes. Kind Heaven, I have looked Death in the face, Help me to die. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WAR by ANTHONY HECHT FOR JAMES MERRILL: AN ADIEU by ANTHONY HECHT TARANTULA: OR THE DANCE OF DEATH by ANTHONY HECHT CHAMPS D?ÇÖHONNEUR by ERNEST HEMINGWAY NOTE TO REALITY by TONY HOAGLAND BY THE ALMA RIVER by DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK DOUGLAS, DOUGLAS, TENDER AND TRUE by DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK |
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