“I will to the King, And offer him consolation in his trouble, For that man there has set his teeth to die, And being one that hates obedience, Discipline, and orderliness of life, I cannot mourn him.” W. B. Yeats. Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad He’d always show the Hun a brave man’s face; Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace,— Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad. Perhaps his Mother whimpered how she’d fret Until he got a nice, safe wound to nurse. Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse, . . . Brothers—would send his favourite cigarette, Each week, month after month, they wrote the same, Thinking him sheltered in some Y. M. Hut, Where once an hour a bullet missed its aim And misses teased the hunger of his brain. His eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand From the best sandbags after years of rain. But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock, Untrapped the wretch. And death seemed still withheld for torture of lying machinally shelled, At the pleasure of his world’s Powers who’d run amok. He’d seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol, Their people never knew. Yet they were vile. “Death sooner than dishonor, that’s the style!” So Father said. One dawn, our wire patrol Carried him. This time, Death had not missed. We could do nothing, but wipe his bleeding cough. Could it be accident?—Rifles go off . . . Not sniped? No. (Later they found the English ball.) It was the reasoned crisis of his soul. Against the fires that would not burn him whole But kept him for death’s perjury and scoff And life’s half-promising, and both their riling. With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed. And truthfully wrote the Mother “Tim died smiling.”