If my bewildered lyre
Amidst such stores of fuel
Seems reft of sacred fire.

For if you know what France is
You know how it is hard
To blend, as in romances,
The warrior with the bard.

The troubadours of story
Knew no such woes as we,
Whose hopes of martial glory
Are built on F.A.T.[1]

With songs and swords and horses
They learned their careless rôle,
While we are sent on courses
That starve the poet's soul.

With gay anticipations
They feasted ere a fight,
But we in calculations
Wear out the chilly night.

And if some hour of leisure
Permits a lyric mood
My wretched Muse takes pleasure
In nothing else but food.

Thus when I am returning