THE LOST TOWNS
Beneath the new moon sleeping
The little lost towns lie;
Their streets are very white and hushed,
Their black spires tilt the sky.
Across the darkened meadows
A plaintive night bird calls;
The sea of fog that clouds the fields
Rolls softly to their walls.
Within their shuttered houses
No midnight candles glance;
Their womenfolk are all abed,
Their menfolk fight for France.
They dream the little lost towns
Of Alsace and Lorraine,
The vision of the patient years,
The old frontier again.
Sleep on, nor cease your dreaming,
Who pitted men and crowns,
We’ll bring you back, we’ll bring you back,
Oh, little, long lost towns.
Steuart M. Emery, Pvt., M.P.