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Alan Seeger - Maktoob
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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.
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