| Every one of you won the war— |
| You and you and you— |
| Each one knowing what it was for, |
| And what was his job to do. |
| |
| Every one of you won the war, |
| Obedient, unwearied, unknown, |
| Dung in the trenches, drift on the shore, |
| Dust to the world's end blown; |
| Every one of you, steady and true, |
| You and you and you— |
| Down in the pit or up in the blue, |
| Whether you crawled or sailed or flew, |
| Whether your closest comrade knew |
| Or you bore the brunt alone— |
| |
| All of you, all of you, name after name, |
| Jones and Robinson, Smith and Brown, |
| You from the piping prairie town, |
| You from the Fundy fogs that came, |
| You from the city's roaring blocks, |
| You from the bleak New England rocks |
| With the shingled roof in the apple boughs, |
| You from the brown adobe house— |
| You from the Rockies, you from the Coast, |
| You from the burning frontier-post |
| And you from the Klondyke's frozen flanks, |
| You from the cedar-swamps, you from the pine, |
| You from the cotton and you from the vine, |
| You from the rice and the sugar-brakes, |
| You from the Rivers and you from the Lakes, |
| You from the Creeks and you from the Licks |
| And you from the brown bayou— |
| You and you and you— |
| You from the pulpit, you from the mine, |
| You from the factories, you from the banks, |
| Closer and closer, ranks on ranks, |
| Airplanes and cannon, and rifles and tanks, |
| Smith and Robinson, Brown and Jones, |
| Ruddy faces or bleaching bones, |
| After the turmoil and blood and pain |
| Swinging home to the folks again |
| Or sleeping alone in the fine French rain— |
| Every one of you won the war. |
| |
| Every one of you won the war— |
| You and you and you— |
| Pressing and pouring forth, more and more, |
| Toiling and straining from shore to shore |
| To reach the flaming edge of the dark |
| Where man in his millions went up like a spark, |
| You, in your thousands and millions coming, |
| All the sea ploughed with you, all the air humming, |
| All the land loud with you, |
| All our hearts proud with you, |
| All our souls bowed with the awe of your coming! |
| |
| Where's the Arch high enough, |
| Lads, to receive you, |
| Where's the eye dry enough, |
| Dears, to perceive you, |
| When at last and at last in your glory you come, |
| Tramping home? |
| |
| Every one of you won the war, |
| You and you and you— |
| You that carry an unscathed head, |
| You that halt with a broken tread, |
| And oh, most of all, you Dead, you Dead! |
| Lift up the Gates for these that are last, |
| That are last in the great Procession. |
| Let the living pour in, take possession, |
| Flood back to the city, the ranch, the farm, |
| The church and the college and mill, |
| Back to the office, the store, the exchange, |
| Back to the wife with the babe on her arm, |
| Back to the mother that waits on the sill, |
| And the supper that's hot on the range. |
| |
| And now, when the last of them all are by, |
| Be the Gates lifted up on high |
| To let those Others in, |
| Those Others, their brothers, that softly tread, |
| That come so thick, yet take no ground, |
| That are so many, yet make no sound, |
| Our Dead, our Dead, our Dead! |
| |
| O silent and secretly-moving throng, |
| In your fifty thousand strong, |
| Coming at dusk when the wreaths have dropt, |
| And streets are empty, and music stopt, |
| Silently coming to hearts that wait |
| Dumb in the door and dumb at the gate, |
| And hear your step and fly to your call— |
| Every one of you won the war, |
| But you, you Dead, most of all! |
| |
| Edith Wharton (Copyright 1919 by Charles Scrihner's, Sons). |
| The snow had begun in the gloaming, |
| And busily all the night |
| Had been heaping field and highway |
| With a silence deep and white. |
| |
| Every pine and fir and hemlock |
| Wore ermine too dear for an earl, |
| And the poorest twig on the elm tree |
| Was ridged inch-deep with pearl. |
| |
| From sheds new-roofed with Carrara |
| Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, |
| The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, |
| And still fluttered down the snow. |
| |
| I stood and watched by the window |
| The noiseless work of the sky, |
| And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, |
| Like brown leaves whirling by. |
| |
| I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn |
| Where a little headstone stood; |
| How the flakes were folding it gently, |
| As did robins the babes in the wood. |
| |
| Up spoke our own little Mabel, |
| Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" |
| And I told of the good All-father |
| Who cares for us here below. |
| |
| Again I looked at the snow-fall, |
| And thought of the leaden sky |
| That arched o'er our first great sorrow, |
| When that mound was heaped so high. |
| |
| I remembered the gradual patience |
| That fell from that cloud like snow, |
| Flake by flake, healing and hiding |
| The scar of our deep-plunged woe. |
| |
| And again to the child I whispered, |
| "The snow that husheth all, |
| Darling, the merciful Father |
| Alone can make it fall!" |
| |
| Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; |
| And she, kissing back, could not know |
| That my kiss was given to her sister, |
| Folded close under deepening snow. |
| |
| James Russell Lowell. |