Of demigods, redeemers of the Earth.
The vineyards where the fragrant fruitage hung
To cheer the peaceful peasant in his toil
Are desolate where Death his shroud has flung
Upon the breadth of France's sacred soil.
Wrecked are the homesteads: buzzard broods abound
Where shell-holes gape, and heaps of carnage rise
Above the naked bosom of the ground,
Mutely denying guilt, in sacrifice.
Still with the jackal at her wounds doth France