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Martin Seymour-Smith

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Green Wall My Grave

This green wall to which I turn to sleep
     Has told my curse upon its shining face ;
In it, true-reflected, I have seen
     The land that is my dwelling-place.

'O grave, O grave, when will you let me sleep?'
     I asked all night. The wall became the sea :
My drowned past selves came up, each one alone,
     And with the quarter-striking bells, mocked me.

The firelight flickered on the wall,
     Showed me my houses known and lost ;
But I was dead, and as I watched
     The bugle sounded my last post.

But in my death at last I knew
     The living of a perfect grief : again
I held my weeping love, and from her tears 
     I now return, in this thin rain

To my green wall. The fire's gone out ;
     The bells are cold as still they sound
The quarters to a light I wait not for
     In a dark which I have not found.

Then comes the dawn. The early trumpet 
     Blows the dead fire ashes far away.
And as I sleepless grieving rise
     I realise that to-day

We storm our enemies the flowers :
     I strike them down to make my woman weep ;
And with her crying still I cry
     O grave, O grave, when will you let me sleep ? '

 

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