by Winfield Townley Scott

    Outweighing all， heavy out of the souvenir bundle

    The German bayonet： grooved steel socketed in its worn wood handle，

    Its detached and threatening silence.

    Its gun-body lost， the great knife wrested to a personal particular violence

    Now bared shamelessly for what it is， here exposed on the

    American kitchen table and circled with the wreath

    Of his three women， the hard tool of death.

    And while Mary his mother says 'I do not like it. Put it down'

    Mary the young sister， her eyes gleaming and round，

    Giddily giggles as， the awkward toy in her left hand，

    She makes impertinent pushes toward his wife who stands

    Tolerant of child's play， waiting for her to be done.

    His mother says 'I wish he had not got it. It is wicked-looking.

    I tell you： Put it down！'

    His wife says 'All right， Mary： let me have it——it is mine.'

    Saucily pouting， primly frowning

    The sister clangs bayonet on table； walks out

    And her mother follows.

    Like a live thing in not-to-be-trusted stillness，

    Like a kind of engine so foreign and self-possessed

    As to chill her momently between worship and terror

    It lies there waiting alone in the room with her，

    Oddly familiar without ever losing strangeness.

    Slowly she moves along it a tentative finger

    As though to measure and remember its massive， potent length：

    Death-deep， tall as life，

    For here prized from the enemy， wrenched away captive， his dangerous escape and hers.

    Mary his wife

    Lifts it heavy and wonderful in her hands and with triumphant tenderness.