The  quickflower-flames  that  sear  into  the  soul

Sharp  wounds  of  pleasure  and  extreme  desire.
[92]


POSTLUDE

Have  I  spoken  too  much  or  not  enough  of  love?
Who  can  tell  ?

But  we  who  do  not  drug  ourselves  with  lies
Know,  with  how  deep  a  pathos,  that  we  have
Only  the  warmth  and  beauty  of  this  world
Before  the  blankness  of  the  unending  gloom.
Here  for  a  little  while  we  see  the  sun
And  smell  the  grape-vines  on  the  terraced  hills,
And  sing  and  weep,  fight,  starve  and  feast,  and  love
Lips  and  soft  breasts  too  sweet  for  innocence.
And  in  this  little  glow  of  mortal  life —
Faint  as  one  candle  in  a  large  cold  room —
We  know  the  clearest  light  is  fed  by  love,
That  when  we  kiss  with  life-blood  in  our  lips
Then  we  are  nearest  to  the  dreamed-of  gods.
[93]


EPILOGUE

Back  we  go  to  the  shell-tossed  land,

To  the  whine  of  the  shells  that  tears  one's  nerves

And  the  crash  that's  only  not  near  enough;

Back  we  go  to  struggle  with  mud,

To  stumble  and  slip  on  the  greasy  hoards,

Back  we  go  to  the  stink  of  the  dead,

Back  we  go  to  the  sleepless  days

And  the  unwashed  weeks  and  tht  mouldy  months,

Back  we  go  to  the  thirst  and  the  dust.
Back  we  go  to  the  grim  despair

That  holds  a  man  by  the  heart  in  France.
We'll  go  through  it  all,  the  fear  and  pain,
The  breaking  up  of  body  and  soul,
Take  our  chance  of  death  after  all.
Of  face  or  limb  or  shoulder  smashed,
Go  through  hell  again,  face  it  out,
For  her,  for  her  love,  for  her  kiss  again.
