All we had heard was of wounded men, Of life which is crude and quick; And then we came to the wards again, To the plain, common sick. @3(There is no splendor in their pain -- This is not new nor high -- Unless it be a splendid thing Just to live and die.)@1 All through the years of fighting These sick have been in bed. They have not heard the shrapnel -- But silences instead. Some are dulled with pain. They moan And do not think of war. And some lie still with quiet eyes And hands, just as before. Life is within the walls to them -- They live as a mystic would, Holding it softly in their hands. Who knows if they find it good? From living they are very far, Behind this veil of pain, From joy and work and the spoken word And dawn and fragrant rain; But still they feel Life stirring, stirring, The days come and go. Life bare and stark and still like this Only the sick can know. This is sheer existence, And a silence which stirs with truth. All things merge to one -- death And life, and age and youth. Here thought is a slow, divining thing, Slow as the sea on stone. Not made "by art or men's device" Are the creeds they have shaped alone. Would they care to play a game of sides, If they could rise and fight, When they know that all things made are one -- All Life, and day and night? @3(There is no splendor in their pain -- This is not new nor high -- Unless it be a splendid thing Just to live and die.)@1 |