Trench Poets

Edgell Rickword

I knew a man, he was my chum,
 but he grew blacker every day,
 and would not brush the flies away,
 nor blanch however fierce the hum
 of passing shells; I used to read,
 to rouse him, random things from Donne—
 like “Get with child a mandrake-root.”
 But you can tell he was far gone,
 for he lay gaping, mackerel-eyed,
 and stiff, and senseless as a post
 even when that old poet cried
 “I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost.”

 I tried the Elegies one day,
 But he, because he heard me say:
 “What needst thou have no more covering than a man?”
 grinned nastily, and so I knew
 the worms had got his brains at last.
 There was one thing that I might do
 to starve the worms; I racked my head
 for healthy things and quoted Maud.
 His grin got worse and I could see
 he sneered at passion’s purity.
 He stank so badly, though we were great chums
 I had to leave him; then rats ate his thumbs.