Maktoob

A shell surprised our post one day      And killed a comrade at my side.

My heart was sick to see the way      He suffered as he died.

I dug about the place he fell,      And found, no bigger than my thumb,

A fragment of the splintered shell      In warm aluminum.

I melted it, and made a mould,      And poured it in the opening,

And worked it, when the cast was cold,      Into a shapely ring.

And when my ring was smooth and bright,      Holding it on a rounded stick,

For seal,

I bade a Turco write      Maktoob in Arabic.

Maktoob! "'Tis written!" . . .

So they think,      These children of the desert, who From its immense expanses drink      Some of its grandeur too.

Within the book of Destiny,      Whose leaves are time, whose cover, space,

The day when you shall cease to be,      The hour, the mode, the place,

Are marked, they say; and you shall not      By taking thought or using wit Alter that certain fate one jot,      Postpone or conjure it.

Learn to drive fear, then, from your heart.      If you must perish, know,

O man, 'Tis an inevitable part      Of the predestined plan.

And, seeing that through the ebon door      Once only you may pass, and meet Of those that have gone through before      The mighty, the elite — —- Guard that not bowed nor blanched with fear      You enter, but serene, erect,

As you would wish most to appear      To those you most respect.

So die as though your funeral      Ushered you through the doors that led Into a stately banquet hall      Where heroes banqueted;

And it shall all depend therein      Whether you come as slave or lord,

If they acclaim you as their kin      Or spurn you from their board.

So, when the order comes: "Attack!"      And the assaulting wave deploys,

And the heart trembles to look back      On life and all its joys;

Or in a ditch that they seem near      To find, and round your shallow trough Drop the big shells that you can hear      Coming a half mile off;

When, not to hear, some try to talk,      And some to clean their guns, or sing,

And some dig deeper in the chalk — -      I look upon my ring:

And nerves relax that were most tense,      And Death comes whistling down unheard,

As I consider all the sense      Held in that mystic word.

And it brings, quieting like balm      My heart whose flutterings have ceased,

The resignation and the calm      And wisdom of the East.