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Home  »  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse  »  Louise Mary Bowman

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

And Forbid Them Not

Louise Mary Bowman

Sentry[at the Front]:Halt! Who goes there?

A Little Ghost:It is only I, kind sir—you must let me through!

Sentry:Little white thing—stop!

Where do you come from?

These are the lines of the allied armies.

Little Ghost:Sir, I’m the ghost of a dream

That the Prussians have murdered.

Once my robe was so pure, soft, shining;

Once I lived in a deep old forest;

Once they fed me with love and with music.

Now I must go to a far new country—

I and these others, my little white sisters.

Strange new soldier, give me the pass-word—

Kind sir, let us through!

Sentry:God! but this war is a queer war!

Look at ’em—starved white ghosties!—

Waitin’ for me to pass ’em

Beyond our lines!

Me! I’m hard-headed, practical—

I never had any traffic with dreams.

Why, the world’s turned dippy!

Halt, I say!

Numberless Little Ghosts[trying to pass him, wailing softly]:
We are the ghosts of dreams

That the Prussians have murdered.

Now we must go to a far new country.

Strange new soldier, give us the password—

Kind sir, let us through!

Sentry:How white and shinin’ their odd wee faces!

Well then, it’s “Christ”—can ye say it, ghosties?

All the Little Ghosts[together joyously]:
Now we can search for our far new country!

“Christ” is the password the soldier gives us.

Thank you, thank you, kind sir.
[They flock swiftly past him; their tattered filmy rags blow softly against him, and now and then small skeleton hands reach out and touch him gently.]

Sentry:Haven’t ye one that would stay for a bit with me,

Now that I’ve passed the whole lot of ye, ghosties?

Wouldn’t one stay with a dull lonely fellow

Just for the company?

First Little Ghost:I will stay with you, strange new soldier,

Where you guard the walls for the world.
[She grows suddenly tall and very beautiful with a shining robe and crown of stars.]

All the other Little Ghosts[calling joyfully and softly from far away behind the lines]:
We are the ghosts of dreams

That the Prussians have murdered.

Forbid us not, for we have the password—“Christ.”