SPRING—1919
What is this France of today, you ask? It’s a madhouse of homesick men, Chafing, each one, to renew his task In the land of his dreams again. France! It is khaki and France is blue And France is a green-capped Hun— Badge of the bondage he’s destined to Till the days of his debt are done.
France is an emerald rolling plain, Ribboned with winding ways, Quivering white through the fields of grain And lost in the purple haze. France is a village of dung and ducks Where the muck-brown urchins play, Rumbling all day with the motor-trucks As they roll down the old highway.
France is a hill with an ancient church— Gray towers through the poplar trees, Gargoyles a-grin from each crumbling perch At the saints on their balconies. France is a window of mellow light Where the day’s last gold has died— France is a woman with brow of white At the feet of the Crucified.
France is a cap and an empty coat And a space where the embers glow— France is a grave by a shell-torn moat Where the weeds and the poppies grow. France is the ashes of yesterday And France is tomorrow’s dawn— France is a bough with a blossom spray On the ruins of Montfaucon.
Verdun, France, April, 1919.