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 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR
 
 THREE POEMS 
 OF THE WAR s, 
 
 PAUL CLAUDEL • Translated 
 into English Verse by EDWARD J. 
 O'BRIEN • With the French Text. 
 Introduction by TiERRE C HAVA ^NES 
 
 New Haven: YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 London: HUMPHREY MILFORD :: OXFORD 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS ^ MDCCCCXIX
 
 Copyight, 1 91 9, by 
 Tale University Tress.
 
 C51T7 
 
 'These poems "toere recited 
 for the first time by 
 <Mlle. Cve Francis. 
 
 493234 
 
 FRENCH
 
 Introduction to Three Poems of the War. 
 
 IN France and elsewhere these three poems have 
 been greeted by different critics as the most beauti- 
 ful that the war has so far inspired; and as they 
 have won over the critics they have also won the 
 applause of vast audiences. They have done more, 
 perhaps, for the fame of Claudel than all the work 
 he has accomplished in the course of a life that has already 
 entered upon its second half. And in this fact there is 
 something strange. Claudel is not a "national poet" in 
 the ordinary sense of the term. He is solitary, even in 
 his own country. He is so partly by the force of cir- 
 cumstances: nearly always away from France, first as 
 consul in America, then in China, lastly in Germany, 
 he was not borne to fame by any literary school or coterie. 
 But solitary he is by the very nature of his mind and art. 
 In the French literature of yesterday Claudel appeared 
 as something of a stranger. Whence came he? He is 
 not like any other poet, the logical and incontestable heir 
 of a clearly traced lineage; he does not belong to the 
 French tradition of clearness, elegance, measure, perfec- 
 
 7
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 tion, united in a form that is far removed from all excess 
 and from all extremes. His originality is baffling, and his 
 form is strange. His vers libre may be linked, perhaps, 
 with that rhythm of Rimbaud, Maurice de Guerin, 
 Chateaubriand, and with the beautiful tradition of French 
 poetical prose; but based as it is on a personal theory of 
 respiratory rhythm, stamped with the seal of an original- 
 ity that is forceful, conscious, meditated, it is his alone, it 
 is "Claudelian verse." Furthermore, Claudel is a reli- 
 gious genius. The faith he holds is not a comfortable, 
 reassuring, accommodating and modern one; but a harsh 
 and inflexible faith which sometimes seems to delight in 
 all that shocks reason and terrifies sensibility in dogma 
 and discipline. He has lived the long drama of the pur- 
 suit of absolute truth alone, and in proportion as he 
 entered more deeply into the possession and the knowl- 
 edge of that truth it seemed as if he were drawing away 
 from his contemporaries; he is the man who embarks 
 for a mysterious voyage and has left wife, children and 
 friends behind on the quay; his words, coming out of the 
 distance, arouse, among those who hear them, only "a 
 little amusement, a little fear" ; and their own words are 
 not understood any better by the traveller! 
 
 8
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 "... Art, science, the life of freedom ..." O 
 brothers, what is there between you and us? 
 
 "Only let me depart, why will you not leave me in peace? 
 We will come back no more among you."* 
 
 ***** 
 
 War breaks out, disrupting everything, entailing the 
 brusque separation which suddenly carries the present 
 back into the distant past. The poets, surprised by the 
 cataclysm, attempt to sing, and into their songs they put, 
 no doubt, all their soul and energy. But who does not 
 feel how thin, feeble and inadequate are their voices? 
 They are lost in the mighty unbridling of forces, in the 
 great anonymous conflict of nations in arms, of civilisa- 
 tions at grips with one another, of opposed ideals, — a 
 confused melee from which will be born in woe some 
 unknown future. This is true of all; but the voice of 
 those poets who seemed so much of their age is just the 
 one which now seems to us to come from afar, from a 
 world that is dead. Why, then, is it the voice of the soli- 
 tary traveller in metaphysical lands, which is after all 
 nearer, firmer, less unworthy of these events which are 
 
 * "Corona Benignitatis Anni Dei."
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 carrying us along, and, as they bear us away, are infi- 
 nitely beyond our comprehension? 
 
 Claudel's art explains much of this apparent anomaly. 
 His art, which unites different, and at times contradictory, 
 elements with unequal success, has been much discussed; 
 and on so controversial a problem time alone can pro- 
 nounce a definite verdict. But we must recognise in it the 
 quality of greatness. Claudel's art did not have to exert 
 itself to attain that gravity, to sound that Dorian mode 
 which alone is worthy of the poetry of war : he was at once 
 equal to events; he was ready. In these poems, in which 
 Claudel's qualities seem to have attained a happy equilib- 
 rium, his poetry — as always with Claudel — is like some 
 massive piece of architecture, the logical arrangement is 
 rigorous and simple, a help rather than a hindrance to the 
 sentiment. It is clothed in a wealth of images, full of 
 fresh power culled directly from life by a poet whose 
 vision is both naive and studied. Claudel, by the rugged 
 freshness of his images and by this direct contact with the 
 world, resembles Whitman a little, but he is the Whitman 
 of an older traditional civilisation, the old peasant, war- 
 like, Catholic nation of France. 
 
 This grave eloquence, present in all three poems, differs 
 
 IO
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 somewhat in each. Familiar and popular in the first, it 
 shows something of the brusqueness, fervor and intensity, 
 that hallucination — or illumination — which is seen in the 
 eyes of those who return from the combat; at the same 
 time it has the great impassioned movement and the sub- 
 lime inspiration which bear up a whole nation through 
 the suffering and horrors of the conflict, enabling it to 
 make its willing and supreme sacrifice: , 
 
 "As often as you will, Sir! O France, as often as thou 
 wilt!" 
 
 The second poem is the most Claudelian. Chateau- 
 briand, speaking of the murder of a poor Italian fisher- 
 man by Napoleon, said: "There is blood that is dumb, 
 and blood that cries aloud: the blood of the battlefield 
 is drunk silently by the earth; the peaceful blood that is 
 spilt spurts out, groaning, towards heaven. God sees it 
 and avenges." Claudel takes over this mystical idea and 
 gives it a deeper significance; it is the earth itself which 
 revolts against the slaughter of the innocent: the crime 
 is contrary to her nature; and the corpse of the innocent, 
 terrible seed, germinates like corn in the ground, pro- 
 ducing slowly its harvest, the terrible harvest of justice and 
 
 ii
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 anger. The guns may thunder; they will not succeed in 
 destroying silence: 
 
 "You will not succeed in replacing in your hearts the 
 voices now forever silent, 
 The unforgiving voices of those you killed and who 
 nevermore will speak." 
 
 The vision develops with a Biblical strain: the con- 
 demned army, "doomed never to return," hopelessly 
 caught between two armies, in front the army of the 
 enemy, and behind them another army, the army of the 
 murdered, rising again: 
 
 "Hear the dead reviving just at thy back, and behind thee 
 in the God-filled night, 
 The breath of resurrection passing o'er thy crime on the 
 crowds!" 
 
 After the heroic fever of the assault and the mad sacri- 
 fice, after the prophetic imprecation and the cry of the 
 "blood of righteous Abel spilt on the ground," the third 
 poem unfolds its broad harmonies, sad but serene. After 
 the long and cruel winter, there is in the air a breath of 
 spring: can it be the breath of victory? After this clear 
 
 12
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 allegro, still touched, like a March morning, with the 
 thought of winter, comes the poignant theme of the great 
 adagio, "To the Dead in the Armies of the Republic." 
 
 "Is it true you will not see victory? is it true you will not 
 see summer? 
 O our brothers intermingled with us, O dead, is it true 
 that you are wholly dead?" 
 
 And the theme develops solemnly, mingled with sad- 
 ness and hope, with death and victory; but at this altitude 
 of the soul, where is life and where is death? Death 
 creates life, triumph pierces the gloom and shines over 
 the deepest sadness; the dead in the armies of Justice fight 
 by the side of the living, not "behind them"; and this is 
 why these armies of Justice are also "the armies of 
 Justice and Joy," the "armies of the living and the dead 
 all together." 
 
 This same plenitude of power and richness, and this 
 same certainty, are also found in the language of the 
 poems. Every word in them expresses its full meaning 
 and all its meanings: an intellectual and mystical symbol 
 and at the same time a sensible reality; and bold compari- 
 sons derive from the words a fresh resonance, in the same 
 
 13
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 way that the attentive ear catches, as they rise one after 
 another, the most hidden and distant harmonies from an 
 instrument played with accurate intonation. The Yale 
 University Press has rendered to this poetry the homage 
 which is its due by recognising that it could not be trans- 
 lated, and by reproducing the French text side by side 
 with the English rendering. 
 
 But Claudel's art does not explain everything. More- 
 over, if this art is so sure of its purpose, is it not because 
 faith animates it and certainty carries it along? This 
 faith and certainty is that this is a holy war, and that it 
 is necessary to fight and to die "so long as there is this 
 injustice, so long as there is this power rearing itself 
 against all powerful Justice;" and if Claudel has been so 
 little surprised by the catastrophe, it is because this cer- 
 tainty is only a result of his faith, this hope of victory only 
 an aspect of his eternal hope. But this certainty is not 
 Claudel's alone, it is the certainty of France. In these 
 poems Claudel is no longer the stranger and alarming 
 solitaire. Here he expresses through his soul the great 
 soul we have in common. And no doubt this is because
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 the traveller has "returned to us," and because it is not 
 only the Catholic but the man, and not only the man but 
 the French man who speaks to us; but it is also because 
 many of us have also moved nearer to him and have left 
 the unfruitful lands of appearances, petty interests, and 
 comfortable life and opinions. For two years and more 
 France has offered the spectacle — runsurpassed by any- 
 thing in history — of a great nation unitedly raising its 
 soul to those higher regions whereto, in ordinary times, 
 only some few souls attain; she has penetrated into those 
 regions of the absolute, of certainty and of sacrifice, 
 whose appeal in a not distant past used to awaken "only 
 a little amusement and a little fear" ; and from this flow 
 that naked simplicity in heroism, and that great calm. 
 These great, glorious, suffering armies are doubtless not 
 comprised wholly of Christians, and the eternal things in 
 which these men believe are not always those of the 
 Catholic faith; many who do not believe or know them- 
 selves to be Christians might say that Claudel's thought 
 is too much inspired by the Old Testament, and, leaving 
 vengeance to God, fight without anger and prefer to think 
 of a better world which may result from their sacrifice. 
 But whatever the belief of her soldiers and the hope of 
 
 15
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 her crowds, a vision is set up for all; there is, as a young 
 soldier wrote a few weeks before falling in an attack, a 
 "spiritual element in this war, a dove of purest white 
 which hovers over our armies." They all feel — even the 
 most unenlightened souls and the most doubting minds — 
 that if they are willing to die, it is not only in order that 
 France may live, it is that something better may be born 
 to the world; that it is better they should die in order that 
 conscience and faith in justice may live among men, that 
 they must conquer in order to save the gentle virtues and 
 elevated human beliefs, the rights of the weak, and free- 
 dom for each man to live and possess his soul. This is 
 the reason why through all this conscious barbarity, homi- 
 cidal science and the horror of these monstrous death- 
 dealing machines, they remain men, "the sons of women"; 
 and why through the agonies of grief, fatigue, physical 
 fear and death, they go with the certainty of the believer 
 who forgets the things which are behind, and no longer 
 sees anything save the things which are before, the task 
 that lies at hand: 
 
 "Nothing before me in the deafening roar and the 
 thunder, save my sacrifice to make!" 
 
 16
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 In a word, the strength of these poems is that their art 
 
 and their soul have made them less unworthy than others 
 
 to present a reflection of the beauty of France, the France 
 
 of to-day, which is the same as that of yesterday and for 
 
 ever, the France that is "gay" and yet so grave, the 
 
 France of clear vision and great-heartedness, the France 
 
 which has courage to understand and not to say "I 
 
 believe" when she only wishes to believe, the "sceptical" 
 
 France which has faith to risk great hazards for the sake 
 
 of humanity, the France which is "terrible as the Holy 
 
 Ghost." 
 
 Pierre Chavannes. 
 
 February, 19 17. 
 
 17
 
 I. 
 
 Yes, General, as Often as 
 You Direct! 
 
 EN times we have attacked in there, 
 "with a purely local effect." 
 
 We must go in there once more? Yes, 
 General, as often as you direct! 
 
 A cigarette first, and a draught of wine. How good 
 
 it is. Your health, old man! 
 There are too many of them still on their legs in the 
 
 three-seventy-seventh since the fight began. 
 
 Your health, old comrade! What were you then in 
 the comical days of civil life, when we were 
 alive in the land? 
 
 A hairdresser, eh? My father's a banker, and I be- 
 lieve his name is Legrand. 
 
 19
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 Butcher, cheeseseller, cure, farmer, lawyer, pedlar, 
 
 leather-cutter, 
 A little of everything here in the trenches, and those 
 
 opposite us will see what will emerge from all 
 
 this slaughter! 
 
 We are all brethren as like as apples, even as perfectly 
 
 naked children. 
 It's in civil life that we were different, here in the 
 
 ranks we are only men. 
 
 Fatherless, motherless, ageless, only claiming my 
 
 personal rank and number, 
 Claiming only the comrade who knows his duty to 
 
 me, at the vital time. 
 
 Behind me the second echelon only, with me only the 
 task that is mine, 
 
 Before me only what I must deliver, amid the deafen- 
 ing roar and thunder! 
 
 Body and blood that are mine to deliver, soul that is 
 mine to deliver to God, 
 
 20
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 The thing in my hand that I must deliver to those be- 
 fore me who sully our God! 
 
 (So long as I shall be living flesh, while there is a 
 notch to make in his belt, 
 
 So long as there still exists this kind of man to con- 
 front, my blow shall be dealt!) 
 
 If the shell does its work, well, after all, 'tis a human 
 
 soul that is going to spring! 
 The bayonet then? The iron tongue that draws me 
 
 is more just and a thirstier thing! 
 
 Attention, all in the trench, to our Chief when he 
 
 starts to lift his gun! And a host 
 Of us will go forth, for we are France, and terrible as 
 
 the Holy Ghost! 
 
 While those confront us who hold what is ours under 
 
 the soles of their dirty boots, 
 While this injustice of force confronts our justice 
 
 which has the stronger roots, 
 
 While there is one who does not succumb, whose face 
 responds to the summons of right, 
 
 21
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 While a Frenchman lives with a laughing face who 
 believes in the things of eternal light, 
 
 While his future exists to be laid on the table, while 
 
 his life survives for him to give, 
 His life and the lives of all his people, my wife and 
 
 children for me to give, 
 
 While fire and steel are the only things to halt the 
 
 advance of a living man, 
 While living flesh of France can cross your accursed 
 
 threads of steel in the van, 
 
 While a child of woman can march across the pomps 
 
 of your science and chemistry, 
 While the honor of France shines more clear in our 
 
 hearts than the light of the sun on a noonday sea, 
 
 While the glorious land behind us listens and prays 
 
 and is silent through the night, 
 While our everlasting vocation shall be to trample 
 
 upon your paunchy might, 
 
 22
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 As often as you direct, to the end ! while a single man 
 of them survives! While a single living man 
 survives, our living and dead shall fight to 
 effect! 
 
 Yes, General, as often as you shall order! O France, 
 as often as you direct! 
 
 June, 19 1 5. 
 
 23
 
 II. 
 
 Behind Them. 
 
 "They will assemble behind them." — The Cure of Ars. 
 
 THE blood unjustly shed sinks slowly 
 into earth. 
 The simple skyey dews and great clean 
 rains give birth 
 To fertile harvests, corn and grain, the pride of Hes- 
 
 baye and Brabant. 
 Yet gentler to its veins for that it mingles with our 
 
 blood to plant 
 The red soul of her sons in her, the offering of milk 
 
 and wine 
 The soldier gave defending her in death, erect and 
 
 armed in line! 
 A solemn gift, his love defined in stubble field and 
 deep-ploughed land, 
 
 25
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 Old Adam's clay rewatered now, man bound to dust 
 by a noble band! 
 
 But your conscription, chalked like cattle, of chil- 
 dren, women, and old men, 
 
 This heap in a corner, helter-skelter, suddenly foam- 
 ing, still hot with life, in the smoking gutters of 
 the pen, 
 
 Like the grapes in the winepress, the black blood 
 spurting unchecked from the wounds of men, 
 
 This fearful vintage smearing all things, of which 
 we all perforce have quaffed, 
 
 Are things of which the earth has horror, a deed that 
 nature spurns, the draught 
 
 Of which flows slowly in her veins, and rises, mur- 
 derers, ever deeper, ever greater than your 
 thirst! 
 
 Are you unmindful she conceives of seed which you 
 have planted first? 
 
 As the long winter's maceration and the brooding of 
 three seasons' fold 
 
 The grain, long dreamed, before it sprouts and 
 
 26
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 climbs and shows a blade, to promise a harvest 
 
 rich a hundredfold, 
 Lo, more truly you have buried the seed and stamped 
 
 it with your foot, 
 And out of the womb of the slain shall flower the un- 
 conquerable fruit! 
 Discharge and rumble, day and night! shoot all your 
 
 pieces together! thunder, German guns! 
 Fire your four-twenty mortar at heaven like a dark 
 
 smoky volcano, Huns! 
 Across the unceasing assault of your power which we 
 
 have yet unceasingly checked, 
 Troops, marked to return no more, our impregnable 
 
 silence you cannot affect! 
 You shall never replace in your hearts the voice you 
 
 have forever killed, 
 The mouth that pardons not of the slain whose words 
 
 your will has forever stilled! 
 Intrench yourselves, beleaguered people! spread 
 
 your net of impassable steel! 
 
 Grave-diggers of your own battalions, dig without 
 rest your own graves in the field! 
 
 27
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 What stamps in your ranks all day and night, what 
 
 gladly rings in your ears is not all! 
 A mighty and soundless army assembles behind your 
 
 ranks, though you hear no call! 
 From Louvain unto Rethel, from Termonde to 
 
 Nomeny, 
 The heaped earth stirs with life, and a great black 
 
 spot spreads free! 
 A frontier stands behind you closed more firmly than 
 
 the Rhine! 
 Hearken, O you people standing among us others, 
 
 hearken, Cain! 
 Hearken to the dead behind you stir again; this night 
 
 behind 
 You breathes the day of resurrection passing on your 
 
 populous crime! 
 Race of locusts eating men, the time comes when you 
 
 must recoil! 
 Step by step the time comes when you must repass 
 
 the bloody soil! 
 Come with us, O race of helmets. Too many meshes 
 
 hold us lest we bend ! 
 
 28
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 Object of our long desire, we hold you firmly to the 
 
 end! 
 Behold the fordless stream of Justice, innocent arms 
 
 around you clinging inescapable as briars! 
 And feel with all our dead beneath your feet the earth 
 
 that yields and sinks to everlasting fires! 
 
 yune y 1 9 1 5 . 
 
 29
 
 III. 
 
 To the Dead in the Armies of 
 the Republic. 
 
 OUR days of gloom recede. The lovely 
 sun anew 
 Shines in a sky of blue. 
 Now is the end of winter, now is the 
 coming of spring, 
 Morning in flaxen robe doth sing. 
 After the raven's alarms and the whistling wail of 
 the wind 
 The blackbird's note is kind! 
 From his hole in the hollow plane just now I have 
 seen creep 
 An insect slow with sleep. 
 The world is alight, the world is warm, it opens, it 
 is free, 
 A white serenity, 
 
 3i
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 A pure and simple joy in bud and bloom, 
 Faith in the summer that comes soon. 
 
 I feel on my cheek the caress of a breeze with its 
 gentle dance! 
 I know it, it is France! 
 
 Soft and simple, but urgent! yes, it is she! 
 The wind of victory! 
 
 Heroes, whose lives have been sown in mass in the 
 
 ground, like grain, 
 Pure wheat, whose narrow furrow they shall not pass 
 
 has been filled with slain, 
 Whose flame and thunder roars from the Vosges to 
 
 the North Sea, 
 To you the dead, in the steps of the living, my 
 
 thoughts now flee! 
 Is it true you will never see the victory, never see the 
 
 summer light? 
 O dead, our brothers mingled with us, is it true you 
 
 are lost in the endless night? 
 You whose youthful bodies piled filled the winter's 
 
 abyss with slain, 
 
 3 2
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 Dimmed by the left bank of the Yser, dimmed by the 
 
 right bank of the Aisne, 
 You who far from the light of the sun and the 
 
 laughter of hope have fought, 
 Obeying orders, strictly forbidden any other thought 
 Than to do what the general told you to do, and at 
 
 any cost hold fast, 
 Soldiers of the great buried Reserve, has the roar of 
 
 the cannon ceased at last? 
 Do you not hear our line advancing, tearing itself 
 
 from the clinging Earth, 
 Nor feel the enemy yielding a little, in the wonderful 
 
 hour of our Victory's birth? 
 Ah ! we have held them with us too long in the depths 
 
 of that gloomy track, 
 Body to body with striving muscles, heart against 
 
 heart and back to back! 
 Rise, intermingled brothers, rise, lo! space is free for 
 
 our armies in flower, 
 Tremendous battalions marching on in golden sun- 
 light and April shower! 
 
 33
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 Feed the storming van of our host with your inex- 
 haustible yield, 
 
 Our people striding slow and sure like a man in 
 sabots who sows his field, 
 
 Crested with our birds of war, followed by our 
 wagons and trains on a line of six hundred miles, 
 until 
 
 Little by little the other people is thrust and driven 
 back biting and stamping, but feeling the power 
 of its master's will! 
 
 As a wealthy farmer looks all around, and sees his 
 lines of mowers advance, 
 
 Lo! nearer and nearer the bank of the Meuse, singly 
 approaches the yoke of all the armies of France! 
 
 And now the German forests and mountains trem- 
 bling emerge in the distant haze! 
 
 O dead, do you feel the heavenly fragrance, eternal 
 reward of heroic days, 
 
 Won at last the sight and scent, body and soul of it 
 all at hand, 
 
 Slaking your thirst for ever and ever in the con- 
 quered enemy's land! 
 
 34
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 The frontier trampled oaths have opened, force it 
 
 with your swelling bands! 
 Enter, Armies of Justice and Joy, enter your freely 
 
 Promised Lands! 
 Ah! the bread in my mouth is bitter, sour indeed is 
 
 my draught of wine, 
 Armies of the quick and the dead, till we slake our 
 
 thirst in the deep Rhine! 
 
 zJlfCarcfi, 191 5. 
 
 35
 
 TROIS POEMES DE GUERRE

 
 I. 
 
 Tant Que Vous Voudrez, Mon 
 
 General! 
 
 IX fois qu'on attaque la-dedans, "avec 
 
 resultat purement local." 
 II faut y aller une fois de plus? Tant 
 que vous voudrez, mon General! 
 
 Une cigarette d'abord. Un coup de vin, qu'il est 
 bon! Allons, mon vieux, a la tienne! 
 
 Y en a trop sur leurs jambes encore dans le trois cent 
 soixante-dix-septieme. 
 
 A la tienne, vieux frere! Qu'est-ce que tu etais dans 
 le civil, en ce temps drole ou c' qu'on etait 
 vivants? 
 
 Coiffeur? Moi, mon pere est banquier et je crois 
 bien qu'il s'appelait Legrand. 
 
 39
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 Boucher, marchand de fromages, cure, cultivateur, 
 avocat, colporteur, coupeur de cuir, 
 
 Y a de tout dans la tranchee et ceux d'en face, ils 
 vont voir ce qu'il en va sortir! 
 
 Tous freres comme des enfants tout nus, tous pareils 
 
 comme des pommes. 
 C'est dans le civil qu'on etait differents, dans le rang 
 
 il n'y a plus que des hommesf 
 
 Plus de pere ni de mere, plus d'age, plus que le grade 
 
 et que le numero, 
 Plus rien que le camarade qui sait ce qu'il a a faire 
 
 avec moi, pas trop tard et pas trop tot. 
 
 Plus rien derriere moi que le deuxieme echelon, avec 
 
 moi que le travail a faire, 
 Plus rien devant moi que ma livraison a operer dans 
 
 l'assourdissement et le tonnerre! 
 
 Livraison de mon corps et de mon sang, livraison de 
 
 mon ame a Dieu, 
 Livraison aux messieurs d'en face de cette chose dans 
 
 ma main qui est pour eux! 
 
 40
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 (Tant qu'il y aura quelqu'un dans ma peau, tant 
 qu'il y aura un cran a faire a sa ceinture, 
 
 Tant qu'il y aura le type en face qui me regarde dans 
 la figure!) 
 
 Si la bombe fait de l'ouvrage, qu'est-ce que c'est 
 qu'une ame humaine qui va sauter! 
 
 La baionnette? cette espece de langue de fer qui me 
 tire est plus droite et plus alteree! 
 
 Y a de tout dans la tranchee, attention au chef quand 
 
 il va lever son fusil! 
 Et ce qui va sortir, c'est la France, terrible comme le 
 
 Saint-Esprit! 
 
 Tant qu'il y aura ceux d'en face pour tenir ce qui 
 est a nous sous la semelle de leurs bottes, 
 
 Tant qu'il y aura cette injustice, tant qu'il y aura 
 cette force contre la justice qui est la plus forte, 
 
 Tant qu'il y aura quelqu'un qui n'accepte pas, tant 
 qu'il y aura cette face vers la justice qui appelle, 
 
 Tant qu'il y aura un Frangais avec un eclat de rire 
 pour croire dans les choses eternelles, 
 
 4i
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 Tant qu'il y aura son avenir a plaquer sur la table, 
 
 tant qu'il y aura sa vie a donner, 
 Sa vie et celle de tous les siens a donner, ma femme et 
 
 mes petits enf ants avec moi pour les donner, 
 
 Tant que pour arreter un homme vivant il n'y aura 
 
 que le feu et que le fer, 
 Tant qu'il y aura de la viande vivante de Frangais 
 
 pour marcher a travers vos sacres fils de fer, 
 
 Tant qu'il y aura un enfant de femme pour marcher 
 a travers votre science et votre chimie, 
 
 Tant que l'honneur de la France avec nous luit plus 
 clair que le soleil en plein midi, 
 
 Tant qu'il y aura ce grand pays derriere nous qui 
 ecoute et qui prie et qui fait silence, 
 
 Tant que notre vocation eternelle sera de vous 
 marcher sur la panse, 
 
 Tant que vous voudrez, jusqu'a la gauche! tant qu'il 
 y en aura un seul! Tant qu'il y en aura un de 
 vivant, les vivants et les morts tous a la fois! 
 
 Tant que vous voudrez, mon general! O France, 
 
 tant que tu voudras! 
 
 Juin y 19 1 5. 
 
 42
 
 II. 
 
 Derriere Eux. 
 
 "On se reunlra derriere eux." — Le Cure d'Ars. 
 
 IE sang injustement repandu est long a penetrer 
 dans la terre. 
 j C'est la rosee des cieux innocente qui est 
 ~Jm pour elle et la large pluie salutaire 
 Qui ressort en moissons plantureuses, fourrage et ble, 
 
 orgueil de la Hesbaye et du Brabant. 
 Plus douce encore a ses veines toutefois quand il vient 
 
 s'y meler, s'il faut du sang, 
 L'ame rouge dans elle de ses fils et la libation comme 
 
 du lait et comme du vin 
 Du soldat qui pour la defendre est tombe, les armes 
 
 a la main! 
 Solennelle donation, definitif amour dans le labour 
 et dans Teteule, 
 
 43
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 Glaise rehumectee de l'antique Adam par quoi la 
 
 terre et l'homme redeviennent comme un seul! 
 Mais cette conscription et le marquage a la craie 
 
 comme des betes, pour la mort, des enfants, des 
 
 femmes et des vieillards, 
 Cette entassement pele-mele dans un coin, et tout a 
 
 coup ecumeuse, et toute chaude encore de vie, 
 
 et fumante par tous les echenaux de l'abattoir, 
 Comme la grappe sous le madrier, cette sortie impe- 
 
 tueuse du sang noir, 
 Cette vendange affreuse dont on la barbouille et qu'on 
 
 lui fait boire de force, 
 Sont des choses dont la terre a horreur, et une ceuvre 
 
 au rebours d'elle-meme, et Tamorce 
 De cette coupe lentement dans son cceur qui remonte 
 
 vers vous, meurtriers, plus profonde et plus 
 
 large que votre soif ! 
 Vous qui l'avez ensemencee, oubliez-vous qu'elle 
 
 concoit? 
 Comme il faut la maceration de tout Thiver et la 
 
 pensee de trois saisons 
 Pour que le grain longuement medite germe et 
 
 44
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 pousse et s'atteste epi, promesse d'une centuple 
 
 moisson, 
 Tel, et plus vous avez enseveli la semence et plus vous 
 
 l'avez pietinee, 
 L'incoercible fruit qui sort du ventre des assassines! 
 Roule, fusillade, jour et nuit! feu de vos pieces toutes 
 
 a la fois! tonnez, canons allemands! 
 Que le coup du mortier de quatre cent vingt vers le 
 
 ciel dans une montagne noire de fumee se 
 
 decharge comme un volcan! 
 A travers le continuel assaut et la continuelle resis- 
 tance, 
 Troupes marquees pour ne plus revenir, vous n'arri- 
 
 verez pas a detruire le silence, 
 Vous n'arriverez pas a remplacer dans vos cceurs 
 
 cette voix a jamais qui s'est tue, 
 La bouche sans pardon de ceux que vous avez tues 
 
 et qui ne parleront plus! 
 Retranche-toi, peuple assiege! etends tes impassables 
 
 reseaux de fll de fer! 
 Fossoyeurs de vos propres bataillons, sans relache 
 
 faites votre fosse dans la terre! 
 
 45
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 Ce qui tape jour et nuit dans vos rangs, ce qui sonne 
 
 joyeusement en face n'est pas tout! 
 II y a une grande armee sans aucun bruit qui se ras- 
 
 semble derriere vous! 
 Depuis Louvain jusqu'a Rethel, depuis Termonde 
 
 jusques a Nomeny, 
 II y a de la terre mal tassee qui s'agite et une grande 
 
 tache noire qui s'elargit! 
 II y a une frontiere derriere vous qui se referme plus 
 
 infranchissable que le Rhin! 
 Ecoute, peuple qui es parmi les autres peuples 
 
 comme Cain! 
 Entends les morts dans ton dos qui revivent, et dans 
 
 la nuit derriere toi pleine de Dieu, 
 Le souffle de la resurrection qui passe sur ton crime 
 
 populeux! 
 Peuple de sauterelles mangeur d'hommes, le temps 
 
 vient que tu seras force de reculer! 
 Le vestige que tu as fait dans le sang, pas a pas le 
 
 temps vient que tu vas y repasser! 
 Viens avec nous, peuple casque. II y a trop de 
 
 4 6
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 choses entre toi et nous a jamais pour nous en 
 
 dessaisir! 
 Nous te tenons done a la fin, objet de notre long desir! 
 Voici le fleuve sans gue de la Justice, voici les bras 
 
 des innocents autour de toi inextricables comme 
 
 des ronces! 
 Ressens la terre sous tes pieds pleine de morts qui est 
 
 molle et qui enfonce! 
 
 J uin y 1 9 1 5 . 
 
 47
 
 III. 
 
 Aux Morts des Armees de la 
 Republique. 
 
 DE nouveau apres tant de sombres jours le 
 soleil delicieux 
 Brille dans le ciel bleu. 
 L'hiver bientot va finir,. bientot le prin- 
 temps commence, et le matin 
 S'avance dans sa robe de lin. 
 Apres le corbeau affreux et le sifflement de la bise 
 gemissante, 
 J'entends le merle qui chante! 
 Sur le platane tout a l'heure j'ai vu sortir de son trou 
 
 Un insecte lent et mou. 
 Tout s'illumine, tout s'echauffe, tout s'ouvre, tout se 
 degage ! 
 Peu a peu croit et se propage 
 
 49
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 Une espece de joie pure et simple, une espece de 
 serenite, 
 La foi dans le futur ete! 
 Ce souffle encore incertain dont je sens ma joue ca- 
 ressee, 
 C'est la France, je le sais! 
 Ah, qu'elle est douce, car c'est elle! naive mais per- 
 emptoire, 
 L'haleine de la Victoire! 
 
 Heros, qui avez ete verses en masse dans la terre 
 
 comme du ble, 
 Froment pur dont l'etroit sillon impassable a ete 
 
 comble, 
 Qui flamboie et qui foudroie depuis les Vosges 
 
 jusqu'a la Mer du Nord, 
 C'est a vous que va mon pensee, vous surtout dans les 
 
 pieds des vivants qui etes les morts! 
 Est-ce vrai que vous ne verrez pas la victoire? est-ce 
 
 vrai que vous ne verrez pas l'ete? 
 O nos f reres entremeles avec nous, 6 morts, est-ce vrai 
 
 que vous etes morts tout entiers? 
 
 50
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 O vous qui de vos jeunes corps Tun sur l'autre avez 
 
 comble ce noir hiver, 
 Obscurcis de la rive droite de l'Aisne et de la rive 
 
 gauche de l'Yser, 
 Vous qui sans aucun soleil et sans aucune esperance 
 
 combattites, 
 Toute pensee autre que l'ordre a executer severement 
 
 interdite, 
 Autre que de faire ce que le general a dit de faire et 
 
 de tenir bon, 
 Soldats de la grande Reserve sous la terre, est-ce que 
 
 vous n'entendez plus le canon? 
 Est-ce que vous n'entendez pas notre ligne enfln qui 
 
 s'arrache de la Terre et qui avance? 
 Est-ce que vous ne sentez pas l'ennemi tout a coup qui 
 
 a plie un peu et le depart de la Victoire 
 
 immense? 
 Ah, trop longtemps nous les avons tenus avec nous au 
 
 fond de la funebre piste, 
 Cceur contre coeur, corps a corps, dans l'etreinte une 
 
 seule chose ensemble et le travail de nos muscles 
 
 antagonistes! 
 
 5 1
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 Debout, freres entremeles, et voyez l'espace libre 
 
 devant nous, et nos armees 
 Qui marchent par enormes bataillons dans le soleil et 
 
 dans la giboulee! 
 Nourrissez de vos rangs inepuisables notre front ful- 
 minant, 
 Notre peuple qui d'un pas lent et sur comme l'homme 
 
 en sabots qui ensemence son champ, 
 Surmonte de ses oiseaux de guerre et suivi de ses 
 
 fourgons et de ses convois sur une ligne de neuf 
 
 cents kilometres, 
 Refoule et renfonce dans ses portes peu a peu l'autre 
 
 peuple qui mord et qui tape encore, mais qui sent 
 
 son maitre! 
 Comme un puissant fermier de toutes parts qui voit 
 
 s'avancer la ligne de ses faucheuses, 
 L'attelage de toutes nos armees tire d'un seul mouve- 
 
 ment vers la Meuse, 
 Et deja paraissent les forets, les montagnes et l'hori- 
 
 zon germanique! 
 O morts, la sentez-vous avec nous, l'odeur de votre 
 
 paradis heroique, 
 
 52
 
 THREE POEMS OF THE WAR 
 
 La possession a la fin avec son corps de la chose qu'on 
 
 vous avait promise, 
 Le grand assouvissement pour toujours de la terre 
 
 ennemie que l'on a conquise! 
 La frontiere que le parjure a ouverte, forcez-la de 
 
 vos rangs accumules! 
 Entrez, armees de la Justice et de la Joie, dans la 
 
 terre qui vous a ete donnee! 
 Ah, ma soif ne sera pas desalteree et le pain ne sera 
 
 pas bon, 
 Armees des vivants et des morts, jusqu'a ce que nous 
 
 avons bu ensemble dans le Rhin profond! 
 
 zM~ars, 19 1 5. 
 
 53
 
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