H. L. Davis

From “Primapara”

I HAD a bench in the shadow, back from the arc light

Which burnt in the engine smoke like a coal, and colored

The men’s faces red, so they seemed inflamed with excitement.

Sometimes all the engines would charge near me, with a noise

Which shook the orange-stand there, moved the piles of dark-red oranges.

I was sleepy with the cold of the winter and the past midnight;

Half asleep I heard the water of the bay; and a man’s voice:

“I remember, in China, when this army was there,

Eighteen years ago, a Captain Abel was worse.

He did not die, either, but went home as you are going.”

And the young soldier: “What did I say: kill?”

The sergeant seemed not to hear him, talked on as an old man will

On some subject he has thought about: “I was no recruit then;

I have soldiered for twenty-nine years, in every country.

That is longer than you are old. You’ll go home, and be like

That man with the oranges. Marry, buy land, do well,

And I say nothing: but do not tell me of soldiering.

Talk of hog-killing, farmer. I am old now,

And still quicker than your people.”
“Yes, you are a sergeant,

You have better treatment. It is all officers with you.

You have soldiered twenty-nine years: they consider you more.

What do you know of my people? They are quick too—

What is this to talk about now? You are too old;

And I shall be home in two days, as good as any officer.”

As the men were silent I heard the gulls following a ferryboat,

Or flying in the dark somewhere; and when they ceased crying and turned

Back into the bay, their wings sounded like leaves

Blowing from poplar trees down a road.
I thought: “Only gulls;

There are the engines, the red-faced men; this is Oakland Pier.

I am tired now, shall I ever be sorry of the quietness

Of the roads in light snow, the thin grass covered and cold?”