FROM PARIS TO CHATEAU THIERRY
The road winds out its weary way,
Where fields are torn with sorrow;
It is a road of yesterday,
That dreams no fair tomorrow.
It is silent, saddened road,
A lonely road to follow;
For in its dust red rivers flowed,
And now, from every hollow,
The crows rise up in sullen flight
The crows that, blackly flying
Against the skyline, speak of night,
And bitterness, and dying.
It is a road that creeps around
Farmhouses that lie broken;
That pauses at each shallow mound,
At every blood-stained token.
A helmet by the way one sees;
A pistol, bent and rusty;
And hung between two shattered trees,
A coat mildewed and musty.
It is a sad, forgotten road,
But oh, it tells the story
Of youth that bore another's load
Without a thought of glory!
For every tattered homestead cries
Of vengeance that descended;
And memory that never dies,
From hearts that stay unmended!
The road winds out its weary way,
A lonely way to follow;
And crows rise black against the day
From every tree and hollow.
A RUINED CHURCH
They could not take the living God away,
Although they left His altar blank and bare;
Their ruthless hands could never rend and tear
More than the walls, they could not hope to sway
The utter faith that is the nation's heart;
They could not bring a real destruction where
Hymn music had been softly wont to play!
They smothered beauty, and tore hope apart;
But in the house of One who is supreme,
The marks they left will now be sanctified;
The broken walls, when war is but a dream,
Will be a monument to those who died;
And every shell-torn scar will stand for One
Whose hands were scarred, the Christ men crucified!
I think, perhaps, the very morning sun,
Will slant more gently through the broken tower—
And, in good season, that some tender flower
Will bloom beside the ruined threshold, where
Folk paused before they entered in to prayer....
CHILD FACES
Child faces saddened, older than they should be,
And wiser than a lived-out span of years;
One wonders what those self same faces would be,
If they had never looked on pain—if tears
Had never been their portion; if the morrow,
Had never held the pallid ghost of care—
Child faces, graven deep with worlds of sorrow,
Until the light of childhood is not there!
Child faces, once agleam with carefree laughter,
Wide eyes, where smiles like baby rainbows grew;
They are the heritage of ever after,
They are the dreams that never will come true.
They are the words of fate that have been spoken,
And when the tumult of the war is gone,
They will remind a world that hearts were broken,
For, in their souls, France goes to meet her dawn!
AFTER HEARING MUSIC COMING FROM A
DEVASTATED FARMHOUSE
Just a little wisp of song played softly in the twilight,
Such a happy little song—and oh, the dusk is gray!
Such a joyous little song, and oh, the night is
coming—
Coming with the bitter chill that marks the death
of day.
Almost like a dance it is, it holds no hint of sorrow,
Almost like a waltz it is, to set the pulse a-thrill;
Not a hint of tears in it—and oh, the night is
coming—
Coming like a purple shroud across the purple hill!
Sad the little farmhouse is, the doors swing on their
hinges,
All the windows look like wounds, pitiful and bare,
And a shell has torn a gash in the broken roof of it,
But the music lilts along like a happy prayer.
Do pale ghostly fingers play on a ghostly violin?
(War has swept the countryside of the songs it
knew!)
Merry is the little tune—not a wistful questioning—
Merry with a rosy thrill of a dream come true.
Just a little wisp of song played softly in the twilight,
Such a happy little song—and oh, the dusk is gray!
Such a joyous little song, and oh, the night is
coming—
Coming with the bitter chill that marks the death
of day!