And have we done with War at last? 
Well, we’ve been lucky devils both, 
And there’s no need of pledge or oath 
To bind our lovely friendship fast, 
By firmer stuff
Close bound enough. 

By wire and wood and stake we’re bound, 
By Fricourt and by Festubert, 
By whipping rain, by the sun’s glare, 
By all the misery and loud sound,
By a Spring day, 
By Picard clay. 

Show me the two so closely bound 
As we, by the red bond of blood, 
By friendship, blossoming from mud,
By Death: we faced him, and we found 
Beauty in Death, 
In dead men breath. 

Added: Apr 28 2005 | Viewed: 945 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Robert Graves
Poem: Two Fusiliers

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