Back from the line one night in June, <br />I gave a dinner at Bethune— <br />Seven courses, the most gorgeous meal <br />Money could buy or batman steal. <br />Five hungry lads welcomed the fish <br />With shouts that nearly cracked the dish; <br />Asparagus came with tender tops, <br />Strawberries in cream, and mutton chops. <br />Said Jenkins, as my hand he shook, <br />“They’ll put this in the history book.” <br />We bawled Church anthems in choro <br />Of Bethlehem and Hermon snow, <br />With drinking songs, a jolly sound <br />To help the good red Pommard round. <br />Stories and laughter interspersed, <br />We drowned a long La Bassée thirst— <br />Trenches in June make throats damned dry. <br />Then through the window suddenly, <br />Badge, stripes and medals all complete, <br />We saw him swagger up the street, <br />Just like a live man—Corporal Stare! <br />Stare! Killed last May at Festubert. <br />Caught on patrol near the Boche wire, <br />Torn horribly by machine-gun fire! <br />He paused, saluted smartly, grinned, <br />Then passed away like a puff of wind, <br />Leaving us blank astonishment. <br />The song broke, up we started, leant <br />Out of the window—nothing there, <br />Not the least shadow of Corporal Stare, <br />Only a quiver of smoke that showed <br />A fag-end dropped on the silent road.<br /><br />Robert Graves<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/corporal-stare/
