The lace of the shadows across the paths
Where the warm sun niters through,
And the open vista between the trees,
With the swan pond half in view,
And the flowers and sloping lawns and the pines
’Neath an arch of Brittany’s blue.
The air is soft as a day in June,
The blossoms manifold
Throw streaks and patches of rainbow hue
Across the green and gold,
And earth and sky in witchery
Entwine you in their hold.
And it comes to me, Can it really be
But two full moons have fled,
Since I limped from a scarred and riven field
Where lay the newly dead,
Bathed in the light of a splendid fight,
And blotched with their blood’s own red.
A world of crimson slaughter
Where the grim locked legions sway—
And the mad machine guns whistle
Their endless roundelay—
And the sinister sound of the thundering pound
Of the great guns night and day.
Night and day, night and day,
With scarce a pause between,
As out of the empty dark a voice
From the farthest hills unseen,
Comes whirling, swirling, shrieking down
Where the helpless front lines lean.
. . . . . . . . . .
The air is soft as a morn in June—
The filmy shadows sway;
And only the joyous music
Of the prattle of children at play,
And the gentle rustle of whispering leaves
That tell of the closing day.
EMBARKATION HOME.
If you’re a homebound soldier
Who’s done his little best,
And you are going ’board the boat
At St. Nazaire or Brest,
Bordeaux or any other port,
Steam-up and headed west:
If you are full o’ the joy o’ life
And “pep” and all that stuff;
And the ozone permeates your soul
And makes you gay and bluff,
Don’t turn and yell, “Who won the War?—
The M Ps,”—Can that guff.