Great Poems of the World War

by William Dunseath Eaton

in The Chicago Sunday Tribune

Written when the Allied armies were chasing the Germans across the fields of France and Flanders, in the summer of 1918.

I SIT down to write a poem of our fighting men’s renown,
And I scarce get fairly started when they take another town.
A British commentator’s praise I versify, and then
A Frenchman up and multiplies the happy words by ten.
The cable service headlines say the Yankees swat the Hun,
But ere I get a jingle framed they’ve got more on the run.
I’d like to be their Boswell in a khaki-lauding gem,
But darn those doughboys’ peppy hides—I can’t keep up with them!
It tickles me quite some to hear of how they’re spreading Teuts
Around the landscape, and I’ll say their ways and means are beauts;
The Fritzian din of “Kamerad” is drowning out the shells
As U. S. shockers shock the shockers with their own pet hells.
I want the good work to go on, but I have one request
To make of them before they lay the kaiser out to rest,
And that is this: Don’t stop your war; continue till you’ve won,
But kindly take a lay-off till I get this anthem done!

A RIDE IN FRANCE
“O. C. PLATOON”

in The Manchester (England) Guardian

TROTTING the roan horse
Over the meadows,
Purple of thistles,
Purple of clover;
Over the clay-brown path,
All through the grass-lands,
Glory of meadow flowers,
Over! Come over!
. . . . . . . . . .
On to the highway winding o’er the hill,
White willow-bordered, grassy-banked;
On through a village ruined and broken.
Grass grows in the rubble-heaps,
Poppies fill the courtyards,
Swallows build in broken walls,
And everything is still.
. . . . . . . . . .
While at the corner—walk, O horse of mine,
A Christ hangs from a crucifix beside a broken shrine.
. . . . . . . . . .
On to the path at the side of the white road,
Cantering, galloping, breasting the rise;
Any road, every road, each is the right road,
Facing the east, the sun in my eyes.
. . . . . . . . . .
Trotting the roan horse
Over the meadows,
Purple of thistles,
Purple of clover;
Over the clay-brown path,
Back through the grass-lands,
All through the meadow flowers;
Over! Come over!

THERE WILL BE DREAMS AGAIN
MABEL HILLYER EASTMAN

in Munsey’s Magazine

Permission to reproduce in this book