Robert W. Service
My job is done; my rhymes are ranked and ready,
My word-battalions marching verse by verse;
Here stanza-companies are none too steady;
There print-platoons are weak, but might be worse.
And as in marshalled order I review them,
My type-brigades, unfearful of the fray,
My eyes that seek their faults are seeing through them
Immortal visions of an epic day.
It seems I’m in a giant bowling-alley;
The hidden heavies round me crash and thud;
A spire snaps like a pipe-stem in the valley;
The rising sun is like a ball of blood.
Along the road the “fantassins” are pouring,
And some are gay as fire, and some steel-stern. . . .
Then back again I see the red tide pouring,
Along the reeking road from Hebuterne.
And once again I seek Hill Sixty-Seven,
The Hun lines grey and peaceful in my sight;
When suddenly the rosy air is riven—
A “coal-box” blots the “boyou” on my right.
Or else to evil Carnoy I am stealing,
Past sentinels who hail with bated breath;
Where not a cigarette spark’s dim revealing
May hint our mission in that zone of death.
I see across the shrapnel-seeded meadows
The jagged rubble-heap of La Boiselle;
Blood-guilty Fricourt brooding in the shadows,
And Thiepval’s chateau empty as a shell.
Down Albert’s riven streets the moon is leering;
The Hanging Virgin takes its bitter ray;
And all the road from Hamel I am hearing
The silver rage of bugles over Bray.
Once more within the sky’s deep sapphire hollow
I sight a swimming Taube, a fairy thing;
I watch the angry shell flame flash and follow
In feather puffs that flick a tilted wing;
And then it fades, with shrapnel mirror’s flashing;
The flashes bloom to blossoms lily gold;
The batteries are rancorously crashing,
And life is just as full as it can hold.
Oh spacious days of glory and of grieving!
Oh sounding hours of lustre and of loss!
Let us be glad we lived you, still believing
The God who gave the cannon gave the Cross.
Let us be sure amid these seething passions,
The lusts of blood and hate our souls abhor:
The Power that Order out of Chaos fashions
Smites fiercest in the wrath-red forge of War. . . .
Have faith! Fight on! Amid the battle-hell
Love triumphs, Freedom beacons, all is well.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem feels like an inspection of memory, war, and poetry itself. The speaker begins by describing their written lines like soldiers in formation, a mix of pride and self-doubt as they review their work. It’s a clever way to set the tone—acknowledging the imperfection of both poetry and war, where nothing is ever completely steady or flawless, yet both demand forward motion.
The poem shifts quickly into vivid wartime scenes, pulling us straight into the chaos and destruction. The images are sharp and cinematic: a rising sun like a “ball of blood,” streets in ruin, and rubble-filled landscapes. Each place name—Hill Sixty-Seven, La Boiselle, Thiepval—carries the weight of history and loss, though you don’t have to know the details to feel their gravity. These are not just locations; they’re scars on the world, mapped out through memory.
There’s a strange beauty in the descriptions of violence. The “shrapnel-seeded meadows” and “silver rage of bugles” almost romanticize the destruction, but not in a way that feels dishonest. It’s more like the speaker can’t help but see the poetry in the horror, finding rhythm and imagery in the randomness of war. This isn’t about glorifying it—it’s about wrestling with how even the ugliest moments can be framed in ways that feel meaningful or strangely beautiful.
The tone throughout is conflicted. The speaker acknowledges the grief and chaos but insists there’s something divine or purposeful within it. Lines like “The God who gave the cannon gave the Cross” stand out as both hopeful and unsettling. They suggest a belief in a higher purpose, but it’s hard not to hear the tension in those words—how does one reconcile faith with the horrors of war? The ending feels less like an answer and more like a rallying cry, a determination to hold onto ideals like love and freedom, even when the world is at its worst.
What makes this poem stick is how it balances opposites: order and chaos, beauty and destruction, faith and doubt. It doesn’t shy away from the messiness of war or the contradictions in trying to make sense of it. Instead, it leans into them, showing that poetry, like memory, doesn’t have to resolve anything to be powerful. It’s about capturing what it felt like to live through it, to carry it, and to still believe in something despite it all.