New-York tribune., 1917-12-23

shrieking pieces,
Death that suddenly explodes out of the
dreadful bowels of the earth.
He hears it screaming through the frantic air,
He hears it burrowing underneath the ground,
He feels the impact of it on his back, his
chest, his legs, his belly, and his arms,
He does not move.
In all the landscape there is just one thing
that does not move,
The figure of the man.
The sky long since has fallen from its dome.
Terror let loose like gigantic wind has torn
it from the ceiling of the world
And il is tapping down in frantic shreds.
The earth, ages ago, leaped screaming up;
out of the fastness of its ancient laws,
There is no centre now to hold it down;
1t rolls and wrthes, shifting, tortured
thing, a fo1ing mass of matter, set
adrift.
And in between the tapping, suffering REM
nants of the sky and the convulsions
OF the maddened earth
The man stands solid.
Something holds him there
What holds him, tiruid ghosts?
What do you say, you shudderng spirits
dragged from secure vaults?
You who once died in kindly quiet rooms,
You who were companioned to the end by
friends,
And closed your eyes in languor on a world
That you had fashioned for your peaceful
selves?
Some Of you scorned this man.
He was for you the ordinary man.
You thought him pitable; contemplate or
worse;
You gave him idols, temples, formulas of
conduct, prisons, laws;
Some of you pitied him, and wept over his
sins.
Some were Mortified at what you called his
passions, lust of women, food, drink,
laughter, all such simple things.
And some Of you we're afraid;
Wanted to beat him down, break his spirit,
Muzzle his ideas, and bind with bands Of
hopelessness his energy.
None Of you trusted him
No! Not a single one of you trusted him.
But look-look at the stiffness Of that face
Tissued Of quivering muscles, fine as silk,
Exquisite nerve endings and scarlet blood
That travels smoothly through the tender
veins;
One blow--one moment mcre--and that mans
face will be mass of matter, horrid
slime-and little brittle bits
He knows
lie waits
His face remains quite still.
And underneath the bullet-spattered helmet
on his head his steady eyes look out.
What is it that looks out?
What is there mirrored there in those deep,
bloodshot eyes?
Terror? MOI
Despair? Perhaps.
But what else?
All, poor ghosts-poor, blind, unseeing
ghosts
1t is his self you see-Hs self that does re-
member what he loved and what he
wanted, and what ne never had-His
self that can regret that can reproach
his own self now-His self that gave
its self, let loose It's hold Of all but
just its self
Is that then nothing, just his naked self, in
violate; pinning down a shaking world
like single nail that holds;
A single rvet driven down to hold universe
together
Go back, poor ghosts-go back into your
graves.
He has no need Of you, this nameless man.
You philosophers, sou scientists, you men OF
God leave this man alone.
Leave him the grandeur of obscurity,
Leave him in darkness the dumb anguish of
his soul.
Leave him the great loss Of his identity.
Let the guns chant his desth-song down the
world;
Let the fare Of cannon light his dying;
Let those remnants of men beneath his feet
welcome him mutely when he falls be-
side them in the mud
Take one last look and leave him standing
there,
Unfriended- -Unrecognized- -Unrewarded and
Unknown.
MARY BORDEN TURNER