by Randall Jarrell

If， in an odd angle of the hutment，

A puppy laps the water from a can

Of flowers， and the drunk sergeant¹ shaving

Whistles O Paradiso！——shall I say that man

Is not as men have said： a wolf to man？

The other murderers troop in yawning；

Three of them play Pitch， one sleeps， and one

Lies counting missions， lies there sweating

Till even his heart beats： One； One； One.

O murderers！ . . . Still， this is how it's done：

This is a war . . . But since these play， before they die，

Like puppies with their puppy； since， a man，

I did as these have done， but did not die——

I will content the people as I can

And give up these to them： Behold² the man！

I have suffered， in a dream， because of him，

Many things； for this last saviour³， man，

I have lied as I lie now. But what is lying？

Men wash their hands， in blood， as best they can：

I find no fault in this just man.