Zigzag, fretted, running sere
From the cold North Sea,
’Cross the muddy Flanders plain
And vales of Picardy.
Through the fields of new, green wheat
Filled with poppies red,
While abandoned plow-shares show
Whence the peasants fled.
Past the great cathedral towns,
Where each gorgeous spire
Torn and tottering, slowly wilts
‘Neath the Vandals’ ire.
Hiding in the shadows
Of the hills of French Lorraine,
And bending south through rugged heights
To the land of sun again.
Trenches, endless trenches,
Shod with high desire—
All that man holds more than life,
And touched with patriot fire.
Trenches, endless trenches,
Where tightening draws the cord
’Round the throat of brutal Kultur,
And its red and dripping sword.
Trenches, endless trenches,
Bleached and choked with rain,
Could ye speak what tales ye’d tell
Of honor, death and pain.
Could ye speak, what tales ye’d tell
Of shame and golden worth,
To the glory and damnation
Of the spawn of all the Earth.
BARB-WIRE POSTS.
Five o ’clock; the shadows fall
In mist and gloom and cloud;
And No Man’s Land is a sullen waste,
Wrapped in a sodden shroud;
And the click of Big Mac’s moving foot
Is a dangerous noise and loud.