DREAMERSSoldiers are citizens of death's gray land, Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows;In the great hour of destiny they stand, Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.Soldiers are sworn to action; they must winSome flaming, fatal climax with their lives.Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns beginThey think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats, And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain, Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, And mocked by hopeless longing to regainBank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, And going to the office in the train.THE REDEEMERDarkness: the rain sluiced down; the mire was deep;It was past twelve on a mid-winter night, When peaceful folk in beds lay snug asleep: There, with much work to do before the light, We lugged our clay-sucked boots as best we mightAlong the trench; sometimes a bullet sang, And droning shells burst with a hollow bang;We were soaked, chilled and wretched, every one.Darkness: the distant wink of a huge gun.I turned in the black ditch, loathing the storm;A rocket fizzed and burned with blanching flare, And lit the face of what had been a formFloundering in mirk. He stood before me there;I say that he was Christ; stiff in the glare, And leaning forward from his burdening task, Both arms supporting it; his eyes on mineStared from the woeful head that seemed a maskOf mortal pain in Hell's unholy shine.No thorny crown, only a woollen capHe wore-an English soldier, white and strong, Who loved his time like any simple chap, Good days of work and sport and homely song;Now he has learned that nights are very long, And dawn a watching of the windowed sky.But to the end, unjudging, he'll endureHorror and pain, not uncontent to dieThat Lancaster on Lune may stand secure.He faced me, reeling in his weariness, Shouldering his load of planks, so hard to bear.I say that he was Christ, who wrought to blessAll groping things with freedom bright as air, And with His mercy washed and made them fair.Then the flame sank, and all grew black as pitch, While we began to struggle along the ditch;And some one flung his burden in the muck, Mumbling: "O Christ Almig