Poems (Tree)/A Ragged Drummer Rides Along the Street
A RAGGED drummer rides along the street,And at his comingThe silence fills with tunes and rustling feetAnd voices humming.He rode a year ago from far away,On charger prancing,With bright new buttons and with ribbons gay,And banners dancing.Oh, he was fatter than the bursting drumHe bore so proudly,His roaring music woke the silence dumbTo thunder loudly.And by his side the old men and the youngHad followed cheeringInto the sunset smiling as they sung,Nor thought of fearing.They left their lovers and their mothers' lap,Their homes demolish,"For, look, I have a ribbon for my cap,A sword to polish!"And so the town was silent once again,Though tunes of battleBeat fearful in the wind, or in the rainGhost drums would rattle.But at the chuckling dice or careful loom,Or candled churchesA few forgot or prayed or followed doomWith drunken lurches. . . .Now loom and bar and church disgorge the throng,In huddled massesThey stand aghast to hear the drummer's songAs back he passes—Palsied and drear and bent he turns aloneIn rags and tatters,And on a soundless barrel with a boneHe beats and batters. "Where march your feet so gaily, careless crowd,That we may kiss them?Where sound your little songs that rang so loudTo us that miss them?"There are no songs, no happy marching feet,No favours flying:The drummer passes . . . on the quiet streetThe sun is dying.Sun that must bleed to death so red and brave! . . .Have done with weeping,But put your ribbons on a soldier's graveAs he lies sleeping.
1914