THE RETURN OF THE REFUGEES
They pick their way o’er the shell-pocked road
As the evening shadows fall,
A man and woman, their eyes a-gleam
With awe at war’s black pall.
The straggling strands of her snowy hair
Are tossed in the wind’s rude breath;
His frail form shakes as the whistling gusts
Sweep o’er the field of death.
With straining eyes, hearts beating fast,
They seek to gaze ahead
To where they left their little home
When from the Hun they fled.
’Neath the heights of a hill o’erlooking the vale,
Half hid in a purple shade,
The dim outline of the town comes to view,
And they hasten down the glade.
At last the town, the street, and home!
But God! Can it be this?—
This pile of stones, this hideous hulk,
This gaping orifice?
The sun has set. The evening star
Sends down its soothing light.
Gone are the tears; their hearts are strong—
“For God, for France, and Right!”
Frederick W. Kurth, Sgt., M.T.D.