# More songs by the fighting men. Soldiers poets: second series/Rudolph Louis Nègros

RUDOLPHE LOUIS NÈGROZ
Lance-Corporal, West Yorks
Con Amore
IF but my love were as my love should be, And pen a fitting scribe unto my heart, Even then your praise I could not worthily In ringing rime chime forth: no earthly art Could frame the incommunicable worth That is all yours, purchased with many tears, And patient bravery, and happiness of earth Renounced to buy your children's future years. Then on the little mound your toil made good Against a merciless tide of circumstance I'll stand, taking the breath of gratitude To mind and heart their power to enhance, That I may reach the ear of future times And hint my Mother's worth in these poor rimes.
The world must know your greatness, little Mother! I will not have it so to be confined That it should dwell but in the heart of my brother, My sister's and mine own, and in our mind ​Invoke respect, tongue-tied however just. O Heart! turn lyre within me! You are stirred At her great contemplation, then you must Shake into song, though be it as a bird Whose artless iteration of his theme Makes music without skill, by virtue of The cherished sweetness of the Spring, his dream Through bitter Winter. Sing but of her love, Of her exceeding love, O Heart, then you May render somewhat of the debt her due.
So great your love is, Mother, it may be Nor held by words nor compassed by my rime; It has o'erwhelmed the wide, disparting sea, It has assaulted battlemented Time To keep your guardian spirit round me when Danger affronted or but lay in lurk— Danger of death in this mad war of men, Danger of sin in Life's worse war of work And play, shadow and light, quick tears, brief joys: You knew Life's sweetness when you gave me birth And shared my infant bliss in stingless toys, Alas! that since then joy has been in dearth And grief has loosed so many of those tears Which grew your Faith and Love beyond the years.
​I have been exiled now for two long years, Known many dangers, many pleasant places; I have been near to Death just when he rears With terrible intent, and gazed upon the faces Of stricken comrades after his dread leap; In eastern deserts I have worshipped beauty Austerely still, where Death and Life to sleep, And Home is a strange dream, and stranger "Duty"; Yet have your mother-hands reached out always With some sweet draught for Mem'ry; your pitying Softened the couch of hardships; darkest days Your brightest words did light who knew the sting Of this cruel war most cruelly deep at heart— Your love to sing then, what an Angel's art!
Stern War has caused my life's frail barque to ride Some perilous seas of Death, made me warm friends With cold Privation, and like Dante's guide, Down doleful, dayless ways where this life ends And deeds, desires, are woven in hidden looms That pattern human fate, me has he led With hand relentless on my hand. 'Mid tombs My dragging and his careless feet did tread, Echoing fear about my heart, and then, With his contempt content, my hand he freed ​And left me breathing still the air of men On this sweet earth. Yet in my daily creed Shall be deep thanks to War that touched my eyes With sight to see in you my priceless prize.
Return is sweet to one who hath been far On pilgrimage or war's stern business, and Hath oft at evening watched the evening star Beckon to him beyond the desert sand, Whispering of those green lands of memory's home, Fertile with bliss that was and is to be, Until, no more inconstantly to roam With a sweet pain at heart then voweth he. But doubly happy in my happiness Am I who to anticipate made glad Drear days of trial, and find each cheerful guess So true, I gained such glad days from such sad: You are my home, and I find home confirm The hopes most glad of my sad exile-term.
And yet if I unto my verse would wed Fair Truth, who stands with grave unfaltering gaze, Reading where late my labouring pen hath sped In halting periods o'er my checkered days, Let me not write so of the present joy Of my home-coming that one could infer ​A happiness complete, without alloy Of my sad Knowledge, Wisdom's minister. Do I not know the bitter tinge to Life Which Fate hath in your chaliced mother-heart Mixed with maternal sweetness—the sharp knife That stabs your peace—the cloud that doth impart A darkness to each day—a child's affliction, Bounding your every joy with stern restriction?
True, true it is I know your suffering, dear, And that my knowledge never can attain To utter understanding nor come near With Sympathy your heights of holy pain. Yet to be comforted you'll not refuse, Knowing your Mother's heart can mine relieve; So take this comfort: that your son will use The gifts you gave him homage due to give Unto your humble greatness—never pray For richer boon than grace to sow these seeds Of future fame, to tell a later day All the eternal splendour of your deeds. Thus may I crown a life of little worth With the rich praise of her who gave me birth.
These gifts you gave on God's behalf, I wonder How they are mine above all my deserving— My life's path cluttered is with many a blunder Nor Duty-guided in a course unswerving, ​As lies your own in beauteous symmetry Behind, beyond the rise of the distant hill Where finds the daylight first all that of me Does make the man, your son, heart, mind and will. Then how must I, with firm-held reins, with bit Drawn hard, hold in my spirited arrogance, The lust of youth, the usufruct of it, The power impetuous, seeking ever a chance To break away into loose licence, when 'Tis needed so, to praise you, by my pen!
There is not beauty enough in the whole world— Could it be brought obedient to my will— No hues of budding dawn, no colours furled After rich sunset, in the west, dim, still; No melodies of brooks or birds, no tunes Which breezes wake among green leaves that lay Upon some summer's breathing breast—nor runes Around a lonely lake which ripples play, Falling on quiet shores—nor voice of shimmering ocean Whose anger sleepeth. Nay on all the earth There is no beauty stirring sweet emotion To paint, to sing, to monument thy worth:— Nothing that can outbid in all of this My pain-fraught joy feeling thy prideful kiss.
​Mother! toward you my gratitude now goes As to a goddess of some ancient fane, Worshipped for fruitful blessings, incense rose, While the stone altar held the dove just slain In simple, penitential sacrifice, And the great congregation, humbled, bowed, Acknowledged thus the wondrous gifts whose price They could not pay but in surrender proud To gratitude's humility.—But you Claim nothing slain in your cult, except What I would less than value—all the true, Enduring things in me have upward leapt, Striving to do your honour. So do I In humble pride my voice lift heaven-high.
France, Sept., 1917.