In our own tongue； ‘slainte filidh'。〃 To his mother he wrote；
〃the Latin is translatable as； ‘seeing the star they rejoiced
with exceeding gladness'。〃 For the benefit of those whose education
has proceeded no further than the Latin； it may be explained
that the two last words mean； 〃Hail to the poet〃。
To the inexperienced there is something portentous about an appearance
in print and something mysterious about the business of an editor。
A legend has already grown up around the publication of 〃In Flanders Fields〃
in ‘Punch'。 The truth is； 〃that the poem was offered in the usual way
and accepted； that is all。〃 The usual way of offering a piece to an editor
is to put it in an envelope with a postage stamp outside to carry it there；
and a stamp inside to carry it back。 Nothing else helps。
An editor is merely a man who knows his right hand from his left；
good from evil； having the honesty of a kitchen cook
who will not spoil his confection by favour for a friend。
Fear of a foe is not a temptation； since editors are too humble and harmless
to have any。 There are of course certain slight offices
which an editor can render； especially to those whose writings
he does not intend to print； but John McCrae required none of these。
His work was finished to the last point。 He would bring his piece in his hand
and put it on the table。 A wise editor knows when to keep his mouth shut；
but now I am free to say that he never understood the nicety
of the semi…colon； and his writing was too heavily stopped。
He was not of those who might say； take it or leave it； but rather；
look how perfect it is； and it was so。 Also he was the first to recognize
that an editor has some rights and prejudices； that certain words
make him sick； that certain other words he reserves for his own use；
〃meticulous〃 once a year； 〃adscititious〃 once in a life time。
This explains why editors write so little。 In the end；
out of mere good nature； or seeing the futility of it all；
they contribute their words to contributors and write no more。
The volume of verse as here printed is small。 The volume might be enlarged；
it would not be improved。 To estimate the value and institute a comparison
of those herein set forth would be a congenial but useless task；
which may well be left to those whose profession it is to offer instruction
to the young。 To say that 〃In Flanders Fields〃 is not the best
would involve one in controversy。 It did give expression to a mood
which at the time was universal； and will remain as a permanent record
when the mood is passed away。
The poem was first called to my attention by a Sapper officer； then Major；
now Brigadier。 He brought the paper in his hand from his billet
in Dranoutre。 It was printed on page 468； and Mr。 ‘Punch' will be glad
to be told that； in his annual index； in the issue of December 29th； 1915；
he has mispelled the author's name； which is perhaps the only mistake
he ever made。 This officer could himself weave the sonnet with deft fingers；
and he pointed out many deep things。 It is to the sappers
the army always goes for 〃technical material〃。
The poem； he explained； consists of thirteen lines in iambic tetrameter
and two lines of two iambics each； in all； one line more
than the sonnet's count。 There are two rhymes only； since the short lines
must be considered blank； and are； in fact； identical。 But it is
a difficult mode。 It is true； he allowed； that the octet of the sonnet
has only two rhymes； but these recur only four times；
and the liberty of the sestet tempers its despotism；
which I thought a pretty phrase。 He pointed out the dangers inherent
in a restricted rhyme； and cited the case of Browning； the great rhymster；
who was prone to resort to any rhyme； and frequently ended in absurdity；
finding it easier to make a new verse than to make an end。
At great length but the December evenings in Flanders are long；
how long； O Lord！ this Sapper officer demonstrated the skill
with which the rhymes are chosen。 They are vocalized。
Consonant endings would spoil the whole effect。 They reiterate O and I；
not the O of pain and the Ay of assent； but the O of wonder； of hope；
of aspiration； and the I of personal pride； of jealous immortality；
of the Ego against the Universe。 They are； he went on to expound；
a recurrence of the ancient question： 〃How are the dead raised；
and with what body do they come？〃 〃How shall I bear my light across？〃
and of the defiant cry： 〃If Christ be not raised； then is our faith vain。〃
The theme has three phases： the first a calm； a deadly calm；
opening statement in five lines； the second in four lines；
an explanation； a regret； a reiteration of the first； the third；
without preliminary crescendo； breaking out into passionate adjuration
in vivid metaphor； a poignant appeal which is at once a blessing and a curse。
In the closing line is a satisfying return to the first phase；
and the thing is done。 One is so often reminded of the poverty
of men's invention； their best being so incomplete； their greatest
so trivial； that one welcomes what this Sapper officer surmised
may become a new and fixed mode of expression in verse。
As to the theme itself I am using his words： what is his is mine；
what is mine is his the interest is universal。 The dead； still conscious；
fallen in a noble cause； see their graves overblown in a riot of poppy bloom。
The poppy is the emblem of sleep。 The dead desire to sleep undisturbed；
but yet curiously take an interest in passing events。 They regret
that they have not been permitted to live out their life to its normal end。
They call on the living to finish their task； else they shall not sink
into that complete repose which they desire； in spite of the balm
of the poppy。 Formalists may protest that the poet is not sincere；
since it is the seed and not the flower that produces sleep。
They might as well object that the poet has no right to impersonate the dead。
We common folk know better。 We know that in personating the dear dead；
and calling in bell…like tones on the inarticulate living；
the poet shall be enabled to break the lightnings of the Beast；
and thereby he； being himself； alas！ dead； yet speaketh； and shall speak；
to ones and twos and a host。 As it is written in resonant bronze：
VIVOS 。 VOCO 。 MORTUOS 。 PLANGO 。 FULGURA 。 FRANGO：
words cast by this officer upon a church bell which still rings
in far away Orwell in memory of his father and of mine。
By this time the little room was cold。 For some reason the guns had awakened
in the Salient。 An Indian trooper who had just come up；
and did not yet know the orders； blew 〃Lights out〃； on a cavalry trumpet。
The sappers work by night。 The officer turned and went his way
to his accursed trenches； leaving the verse with me。
John McCrae witnessed only once the raw earth of Flanders hide its shame
in the warm scarlet glory of the poppy。 Others have watched
this resurrection of the flowers in four successive seasons；
a fresh miracle every time it occurs。 Also they have observed
the rows of crosses lengthen； the torch thrown； caught； and carried
to victory。 The dead may sleep。 We have not broken faith with them。
It is little wonder then that 〃In Flanders Fields〃 has become
the poem of the army。 The soldiers have learned it with their hearts；
which is quite a different thing from committing it to memory。
It circulates； as a song should circulate； by the living word of mouth；
not by printed characters。 That is the true test of poetry；
its insistence on making itself learnt by heart。 The army has varied
the text； but each variation only serves to reveal more clearly
the mind of the maker。 The army says； 〃AMONG the crosses〃；
〃felt dawn AND sunset glow〃； 〃LIVED and were loved〃。 The army may be right：
it usually is。
Nor has any piece of verse in recent years been more widely known
in the civilian world。 It was used on every platform from which men
were being adjured to adventure their lives or their riches
in the great trial through which the present generation has passed。
Many 〃replies〃 have been made。 The best I have seen was written
in the ‘New York Evening Post'。 None but those who were prepared to die
before Vimy Ridge that early April day of 1916 will ever feel fully
the great truth of Mr。 Lillard's opening lines； as they speak
for all Americans：
〃Rest ye in peace； ye Flanders dead。
The fight that ye so bravely led
We've taken up。〃
They did and bravely。 They heard the cry 〃If ye break faith；
we shall not sleep。〃
II
With the Guns
If there was nothing remarkable about the publication of 〃In Flanders Fields〃；
there was something momentous in the moment of writing it。 And yet
it was a sure instinct which prompted the writer to send it to ‘Punch'。
A rational man wishes to know the news of the world in which he lives；
and if he is interested in life； he is eager to know how men feel
and comport themselves amongst the events which are passing。
For this purpose ‘Punch' is the great newspaper of the world；
and these lines describe better than any other how men felt
in that great moment。
It was in