A poem by Rudyard Kipling for Armistice Day

Gethsemane

 1914-1918

 

The Garden called Gethsemane 

In Picardy it was, 

And there the people came to see 

The English soldiers pass. 

We used to pass—we used to pass 

Or halt, as it might be, 

And ship our masks in case of gas 

Beyond Gethsemane. 

The Garden called Gethsemane, 

It held a pretty lass, 

But all the time she talked to me 

I prayed my cup might pass. 

The officer sat on the chair, 

The men lay on the grass, 

And all the time we halted there 

I prayed my cup might pass. 

It didn’t pass—it didn’t pass- 

It didn’t pass from me. 

I drank it when we met the gas 

Beyond Gethsemane!