THE COLLECTED POEMS OF HENRIK IBSEN Translated by John ...

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They flocked to a flag that showed red and white.
It wasn’t the Dannebrog tempest-fanner.
They mustered beneath the Red Cross banner.
They mustered with weapons of hate discarded.
The right flank was swordless, the left unguarded.
The way though was barred, for a bayonet cordon
stretching east and west served as front-line warden.
That cross of red on its snow-white strip
failed to moisten the casualty’s lip.
The gaping wounds lacked the soothing needed; —
the signal for help, that was flown unheeded.
And yet Denmark’s champions held out, proved steady,
enduring, each one of them wide-awake, ready.
Then came the order as stiff as starch:
“Field Service, retreat; to the North — quick march!
“All flags in your rucksacks, — stow! — and forget them!
The black eagles are circling, you mustn’t upset them.
“The lions rampant, — wag tails in subjection!
The men on watch, — signal ‘Change of direction!’”
It’s not in dispute; a bard has declaimed it, —
and dear old Grundtvig and God have ordained it.
Right! Beat the retreat. To rapprochement’s feast!
On the platform stands Pan-Germania’s priest.
The new bosom friends, new brother with brother,
stand chinking their glasses, embrace one another.
All the lamps have been kindled; our eight-year-long dream
goes floating away on a speech-making stream.
The smell of tobacco smoke, music is swirling.
In everyone’s mind a great future’s unfurling.
What’s muddling the music? A death-rattle shriek.
What’s fouling the smoke? It’s a corpse-like reek.
A breeze swept the fug — soft sou’westerly weather.
It brought us the reek and the death-cry together.