Ford Madox Hueffer

I should like to imagine A moonlight in which there would be no machine-guns! For, it is possible To come out of a trench or a hut or a tent or a church all in ruins: To see the black perspective of long avenues All silent. The white strips of sky At the sides, cut by the poplar trunks: The white strips of sky Above, diminishing— The silence and blackness of the avenue Enclosed by immensities of space Spreading away Over No Man's Land.... For a minute ... For ten ... There will be no star shells But the untroubled stars, There will be no Very light But the light of the quiet moon Like a swan. And silence.... Then, far away to the right thro' the moonbeams "Wukka Wukka" will go the machine-guns, And, far away to the left Wukka Wukka. And sharply, Wuk ... Wuk ... and then silence For a space in the clear of the moon.

I should like to imagine A moonlight in which the machine-guns of trouble Will be silent.... Do you remember, my dear, Long ago, on the cliffs, in the moonlight, Looking over to Flatholme We sat ... Long ago!... And the things that you told me ... Little things in the clear of the moon, The little, sad things of a life.... We shall do it again Full surely, Sitting still, looking over at Flatholme. Then, far away to the right Shall sound the Machine Guns of trouble Wukka-wukka! And, far away to the left, under Flatholme, Wukka-wuk!... I wonder, my dear, can you stick it? As we should say: "Stick it, the Welch!" In the dark of the moon, Going over....

The little angels of Heaven Each wear a long white dress, And in the tall arcadings Play ball and play at chess; With never a soil on their garments, Not a sigh the whole day long, Not a bitter note in their pleasure, Not a bitter note in their song. But they shall know keener pleasure, And they shall know joy more rare— Keener, keener pleasure When you, my dear, come there. The little angels of Heaven Each wear a long white gown, And they lean over the ramparts Waiting and looking down.