Robert W. Service
There’s a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane;
There’s old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain;
There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling,
And a score of larks (God bless ’em) . . . but it’s all pain, pain.
For you see I am not really there at all, not at all;
For you see I’m in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall;
And the bits o’ shells are screaming and it’s only blessed dreaming
That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol.
Oh I’ve thought of it so often since I’ve come down here;
And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear;
The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses,
And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear.
And mother’s sitting knitting where her roses climb,
And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime,
And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light’s a golden blessing,
And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it’s milking time.
Oh it’s Sunday, for she’s wearing of her broidered gown;
And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down;
And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow,
And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown.
And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue;
And her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too;
And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merry
Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you.
So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me;
And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree;
And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling,
And a thousand birds are telling how it’s good to be.
And what are pouting lips for if they can’t be kissed?
And I’ve filled her arms with blossom so she can’t resist;
And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying
That Yvonne is long delaying . . . GOD! HOW CLOSE THAT MISSED!
A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh;
That we’re here to fight like devils, and if need-be die;
That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches
Of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry.
Yet still I’m sitting dreaming in the glare and grime;
And once again I’m hearing of them church-bells chime;
And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather
We will fetch the cows together when it’s milking time. . . .
(English voice, months later):—
“OW BILL! A ROTTIN’ FRENCHY. WHEW! ‘E AIN’T ‘ARF PRIME.”
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
You may find this and other poems here.
Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem captures the sharp contrast between the brutal realities of war and the fragile beauty of memory and longing. It’s like a conversation between two worlds: the peaceful, sunlit one the speaker has left behind and the mud-caked, shell-shattered trenches he’s stuck in. The tone swings between wistful daydreaming and harsh, jarring interruptions that pull the reader back into the present, where survival hangs by a thread.
The descriptions of Saint Pol are vivid, almost painterly. You can feel the warmth of the golden light, hear the gentle chiming of the angelus, and smell the honeysuckle. The imagery is so tender and specific—rosy men in blouses, the white-capped women, the lilacs and clover. It’s not just a place; it’s a sanctuary of ordinary life, love, and simplicity. Yvonne, with her blue eyes and dimpled cheek, embodies all the sweetness and innocence of that world. The speaker’s longing for her isn’t just romantic—it’s a longing for everything she represents: life untainted by war.
Then, the shift comes, sudden and violent: “GOD! HOW CLOSE THAT MISSED!” It’s like being snapped awake from a dream, the booming reality of war stomping all over the delicate fantasy. That moment is raw and brutal, just as it must have been for the soldier, whose heart is torn between the terror of the present and the aching beauty of his memories.
The final stanza is especially striking. It doesn’t end on the romantic note you might expect. Instead, it drags you back to the trenches with a grim kind of humor. The sudden, jarring English voice at the end, dismissive and crude, adds a bitter irony. It shows how disconnected the soldier’s inner world of memories and dreams is from the gritty camaraderie and grim survival instincts of war. The “rottin’ Frenchy” comment is an anti-climax, a reminder of how war grinds everything, even beauty and reverie, into the dirt.
This poem doesn’t glorify war, but it does show the resilience of the human spirit. The speaker clings to his memories—not just as an escape, but as a way to hold on to who he is. Even amid the horror, there’s a refusal to let go of love, light, and the hope of a future where those memories can become real again. It’s this tension—the push and pull between beauty and destruction, hope and despair—that makes the poem so powerful and deeply human.