"Somewhere in France" in nowhere land, there is no mark at all
To tell them where their dear ones fight or where their
loved ones fall;
But this must be in war, you see, and so they bravely wait,
Some mother in her quiet room, some sweetheart by the gate.
They may not know the bitter truth, they have enough to bear,
And well it is they may not know the things that happen there.
God keep the brave across the wave who fight for more than lives,
And bless them, too, the women true, the sweethearts, mothers, wives.
And yet we know their sacrifice, and know they'd gladly share
The wounds and pain of those who fight their battles over there.
'Tis theirs to bear the secret care more deadly than the blow,
The nameless pain and heavy chains that only women know.
They may not with their loved ones march with brave and buoyant tread,
They may not close their dying eyes, nor weep above their dead.
'Tis theirs to give and wait and live, 'tis theirs to love and bear
The cross for those whose life-blood flows afar in France,—Somewhere.
And love is such a wondrous thing that when its sacred flame
Burns in a woman's heart, she learns what language may not name.
It pales all blooms, it light illumes, the angel's wing outgilds,
And makes the sod a court of God, and earth to heaven builds.
Touch with such flame the hearts, O God! of waiting women here,
And may its light leap o'er the land and gleam in every tear
That women shed for lovers dead, by war's unholy hands,
And bring surcease of pain, and peace to this and all the lands.
LINES TO GREECE
Hellas to Eastward flames the war apace,
Along the hills of Macedon and Thrace.
Time marches onward, hand in hand with Fate.
Awake, awake, ere yet it be too late.
Hellas, arise; Thou wert not wont to lie
Prone, while the conflict light'ned in thy sky.
Land of the Muse, if memory thee inspires,
Wake, and with freedom strike as did thy sires.