I have tramped a road when a burning load was strapped to my aching back, Through miles of mud that was streaked with blood, when my closing eyes turned back— I have cried aloud to a heedless crowd of a God that they could not know, And have knelt at night when the way was bright with a rocket's sullen glow.

I am going home through the whirling foam—home to her arms stretched wide— I am going back to the beaten track and the sheltered fireside, With gasping breath I have sneered at death, and have mocked at a shell's swift shirr, And safe again, through the years of pain, I am going back—to HER!



I am coming back with a singing soul through the surge of the splendid sea, Coming back—BUT MY SINGING SOUL WILL NEVER BE QUITE FREE— For I have killed, and my heart has thrilled to the call of the battle hum.... I am coming back to the used-to-be—But, God, do I want to come?



TIM—MY BUNKIE

I met Tim th' other day On Broadway; Hadn't seem him since he fell, Covered like with streaks of blood, In th' Argonne's battle hell.

Tim an' me was bunkies; we Marched together Through th' water an' th' slime— SUNNY FRANCE, HEY? We seen weather That we hadn't dreamed COULD be Anywhere or any time. We had fought—well, hand to hand, Over miles o' broken land, Through th' Vesle, an' by th' Aisne, When th' shrapnel fell like rain— Tim an' me was bunkies—see?

Smilin' sort o' cuss was Tim; Never seen th' beat o' him! He could whistle when a pack Was like lead upon his back; He could smile with blistered feet; Never swore at monkey meat, Or at cooties, or th' drill; Always laughin'—never still— That was Tim!

Say, th' fellers loved that boy! Chaplain said that he "was joy All incarnate—" Sounds all right, But th' men said he was WHITE, That meant most to us, I'd say! Why, we never seen th' day When he wouldn't help a guy. If he had a franc he'd buy Chocolate or chow for us, Gen'rus little smilin' cuss— That was Tim!

When THEY got him, I can see Even now, th' way he slipped To th' ground beside o' me. Red blood dripped From his tunic an' his chin, But he choked out, "Fellers, win! "Me, I don't much matter, GRIN!"

Sure we had ter leave him lay; War is always that-a-way; An' we thought o'course he'd die. Maybe that's the reason why We could fight th' way we did; Why we found th' guns THEY hid; Why we broke their line in two, Whistlin' a tune HE knew All th' time we pushed 'em back, Crowdin' on 'em whack fer whack!

I seen Tim th' other day On Broadway; He had lef' one arm in France, But his eyes was all a-dance When he seen me face t' face. "Say," he shouts, "ain't this SOME place? Ain't it great th' war is through? Glad I seen it, though; ain't you?"

Smilin' sort o' little cuss, Meetin' me without a fuss— Tim, my bunkie, livin'!... Tim! That's him!



A PRAYER FOR OUR BOYS RETURNING

God, bring them back just as they went away; A little wiser, maybe, but unchanged In all the vital things—let them today Take up the lives that war has disarranged. Let them renew the youth they laid aside To fight their battles in the world of men, God, bring to life their little dreams that died, And build their altars new again, and then—

Give them the vivid youth that they have sought for Through bloody mists on bloody fields of strife; Show them the gallant truth that they have fought for; Show them, anew, the better things of life. God of the hosts, blot out the months of pain— And let them have their boyhood back again. AMEN.



PARIS

I. AFTER PEACE

The city thrills once more to joyous singing; Glad laughter sounds again upon the street, And music throbs again, until young feet Trip merrily upon their way; the ringing Of hour chimes are gallant voices, flinging Their challenges through each crowded space, to greet Old friends who linger where they used to meet With other friends long gone.... The summer, bringing

The light of peace, has seemed to fill the city, With happiness that echoes far and wide In sounds of joy; there seems no room for sorrow— Yet, like a minor chord submersed in pity, There steals above the music of tomorrow, The weary footsteps of the ones who died.



II. THE RUE DE LA PAIX—(A STREET OF JEWELS)

The windows glow with many jewels, with rubies fire-entangled, And glowing bits of emerald, and diamonds like the dew— But, Paris, can you quite forget the bodies lying mangled Beneath the snow on Flanders fields—your lost who call to you?).

The windows of each little shop are gay with gem- like laughter, With rings to fit milady's hand, and drops to deck her ear; (But, Paris, can you quite forget Verdun, and Ypres, and—after? And, far beneath the sounds of mirth, one wonders what you hear.)

The windows glow with countless jewels, the shop- girls stop to wonder, The little shopgirls who are still, so many, dressed in black— (But, oh, the saddened hearts of them no doubt are lying under Some sandy stretch along the Marne, where grim defeat turned back!)

The windows gleam enticingly, and eyes light up to see them, For Paris thrills to loveliness, as Paris always thrilled— (Oh, God of beauty, touch the lives that war has crushed, and free them From broken dreams, an empty faith, and hopes forever stilled!)



III. THE FLOWER WAGONS

Violets and mignonette, crowded close together, Crowded close together on the corner of each street, Through the chilling dampness of the misty weather, Violets and mignonette—ah, so close together— Making all the Paris day colorful and sweet!

Roses faintly touched with pink; see, a soldier lingers Close beside the flower-stand, dreaming of the day When she broke a single bud with her slender fingers, Pressed it to her wistful mouth—see, a soldier lingers Dreaming of a summertime very far away.

Lilacs white and pure and new, fragrant as the morning— One pale widow, passing by, pauses for a space, Thinking of the lilac tree that once grew, adorning All a little cottage home, in life's fragrant morning; Of a lilac tree that grew in a garden place.

Pansies for a thought of love, lilies for love's sorrow, Bay leaves green as hopes that live, berries red and brown; Flowers vivid for a day, gone upon the morrow, Flowers that are sweet as faith, that are sad as sorrow— Flowers for the weary souls of a weary town.

Violets and mignonette, crowded close together, Crowded close together on the corner of each street; Singing of the summertime, through the misty weather, Violets and mignonette—ah, so close together— Making all the Paris day colorful and sweet!

IV. ACROSS THE YEARS

(Marie Antoinette walked down the steps of a certain Chapel on her way to the guillotine.)

They say a queen once walked along the marble steps with grace, To meet grim death by guillotine—a smile was on her face, A smile of scorn that lifted her above the howling crowd, A smile that mocked at pallid fear—a smile serene and proud.

Yes, it was Marie Antoinette—she walked with steady tread, She sauntered down the marble steps with proudly lifted head; And there were those among the crowd who watched with indrawn breath, To see a queen walk out with smiles to keep a tryst with death!

I stood beside those marble steps just yesterday, and saw, A bride upon a soldier's arm—a poilu brave who wore A Croix de Guerre upon his breast—and oh, they smiled above The busy throng that hurried by, unconscious of their love.

And though, across the mist of years, I glimpsed a fair queen's face, A face that smiled, but scornfully, above her land's disgrace— I will remember, on those steps, the little new-made wife, Who came, her eyes all filled with trust, to keep her tryst with life.

V. SUNLIGHT

The sun shines over Paris fitfully, As if it really were afraid to shine; And clouds of gray mist curl and twist and twine Across the sky. As far as one can see The streets are wet with rain, and suddenly New rain falls in a straight, relentless line— And silver drops, like needles, slim and fine, Drip from the branches of each gaunt-limbed tree.

Ah, Paris, can the very wistful sky Look down into the center of your heart, That has been bruised by war, and torn apart— The once glad heart that has been taught to sigh? The sun is like your smile that flutters by Like some lost dream, before the tear-drops start.

VI. THE LATIN QUARTER—AFTER

They were the brave ones, the gallant ones, the laughing ones, Who were the very first to go—to heed their coun- try's call; They were the joyous ones, the carefree ones, the chaffing ones, Who were the first to meet the foe, who were the first to fall.

Artists and poets, they; the talented and youthful ones— All the world before their feet, their feet that loved to stray; We have heard about their lives; stories crude, and truthful ones Of the carefree lives they lived, in the yesterday.

Ah, the Latin Quarter now; boarded up, the most of it, Studios are bare, this year, and little models sigh, For the ones who died for France, died and are the boast of it, Died as they had always lived, with their heads held high!

But a spark of it remains, in forgotten places, For I saw a blinded boy strumming a guitar, Playing with his face a-smile, with the arts and graces Of a troubadour of old. He had wandered far.

Through the flaming hell of war—wandered far and home again, To the corner that he loved when his eyes could see; And he played a jolly tune, he who may not roam again, Played it on an old guitar—played it smilingly.

And I saw another sit at a tiny table, In a dingy eating house; he had laughed and drawn Sketches on the ragged cloth, boasting he was able Still to draw as well as most—with two fingers gone....

VII. NOTRE DAME

Through colored glass, on burnished walls, Soft as a psalm, the sunlight falls; And, in the corners, cool and dim, Its glow is like a vesper hymn. And, arch by arch, the ceilings high Rise like a hand stretched toward the sky To touch God's hand. On every side Is misty silence; and the wide Untroubled spaces seem to tell That Peace is come—and all is well!

A slender woman kneels in prayer; The sunlight slants across her hair; A pallid child in rusty black Stands in the doorway, looking back.... A poilu gropes (his eyes are wide) Along the altar rail. The tide Of war has cast him brokenly Upon the shore of life. I see A girl in costly furs, who cries Against her muff; I see her rise And hurry out. Two tourists pause Beside the grated chancel doors, To wonder and to speculate; To stoop and read a carven date.

In uniform the nations come; Their voices are a steady hum Until they feel some subtle thrill That makes them falter, holds them still— Bronzed boys, who shrugged and laughed at death, They stand today with indrawn breath, Half mystified. The colors steal Into my heart, and I can feel The rapture that the artists knew Who, centuries before me, drew Their very souls into the glass Of every window..... Hours pass Like beads of amber that are strung Upon a rainbow, frail and young.

Through mellow glass, on hallowed walls, The twilight, like faint music, falls; And in each corner, cool and dim, The music is a splendid hymn. And, arch on arch, the ceilings high Seem like a hand stretched toward the sky To touch a Hand that clasped a Cross— FOR FRANCE, NEW-RISEN FROM THE LOSS, AND PAIN AND FEAR OF BATTLE-HELL, KNOWS PEACE, AT LEAST, AND ALL IS WELL!

VIII. SUNDAY MORNING

The streets are silent, and the church bells ring Across the city like the silver chime Of some forgotten memory. They bring The phantom of another, sweeter time, When war was all undreamed. They seem to say, "Come back, come back, across the years of strife "To One who reaches out a Hand today, "A Hand that brings your dead again to life!"

A little white-haired woman hurries past, A tiny prayer-book in one wrinkled hand; Her eyes are calm, as one who knows at last What only age may really understand; That, as a rainbow creeps across the rain, The God of Paris smiles above its pain!



SONGS FROM FRANCE

SCARS

Summer sweeps, like sad laughter, over France, Touching the fields with flower-tinted mirth; Bringing its wistful gladness to an earth That has been stabbed with sorrow's bitter lance; Bringing again the hint of old romance, Bringing again the magic of re-birth; Paying again the price that youth was worth— OVER DIM WAYSIDE MOUNDS THE GRASSES DANCE!

Where there were shell holes summer sends, un- heeding, Blossoms to deck the broken country side; Where, in another season, heroes, bleeding, Fell for the cause of righteousness, and died, Green creeper twines its vivid arms, half-pleading, But there are scars that summer cannot hide!



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!



RETURN

Now that the tumult of the war is over, The fairy folk are coming back to France; They push their way through tangled grass and clover, To find the ring where once they used to dance. They come half-wistfully, the little people, Through broken town, and battered market place, They come past shell-torn church with shattered steeple, They come as smiles come to a tear-stained face.

They come with packs of dreams, with love and laughter, They come with songs rolled snugly up in sacks; They come with promises for ever after, Tied neatly into bundles on their backs! They bring the seeds of magic so that flowers, The flowers of new happiness and mirth, May bloom, once more, in sweet enchanted bowers, Above the heart-ache of a tortured earth.

Now that the angry powder smoke has vanished, The fairy folk are coming as of yore, The fairy folk that hate and war had banished... They pause beside a loosely swinging door, To set it right on hinges that were breaking, They lift an old rag doll with tender care, And hurry on—because their hearts are aching, For one-time childish faces that were there.

They cross forgotten meadows in the gloaming, Through forest aisles at even-time they creep; Where trenches were, their little feet are roaming, And where the heroes of the conflict sleep, They stop, a moment, wistful—and their singing Dies down into the semblance of a prayer; And tiny bells in far-off elf land ringing, Sound, like a silver promise, on the air.

NOW THAT THE TUMULT OF THE WAR IS OVER, ONCE MORE THE COUNTRY WAKENS TO ROMANCE; FOR, THROUGH THE TANGLE OF THE GRASS AND CLOVER, THE FAIRY FOLK ARE COMING BACK TO FRANCE.



THE PHOENIX

The ruined wheat fields lying in the sun Will smile again, e'er many seasons pass; The crooning breeze will sway the golden grass, The way it did before a blazing gun, Mowed down the meadow poppies in red heaps; And battered villages will rise anew, And homes will stand where one-time gardens grew, And, in dim forests where an army sleeps, The little birds will sing their evening songs, The way they did before a blasting rain, Of shrapnel cut their tiny nests in twain; For France will rise, triumphant, from her wrongs—

Yes, France will rise once more in faith, and pave Her roads anew with shattered stones of life, Her songs will rise, once more, above the strife— But what about the hearts that gave—and gave!



A PRAYER ON EASTER FOR OUR BOYS KILLED IN ACTION

Dear God, they will not come again, those lads of ours, Who went to fight with honor's foe across the sea— Who died with eyes set straight ahead, amid the showers Of shrapnel, as they cleared a path to victory, They will not come again... And it is Easter weather, And all the world is waking to the call of life, But they lie sleeping, Over There, our lads, together, Who died before their hearts could know the end of strife.

Dear God, they will not come again, those lads of ours, Who left this land so gallantly to do their best— And so I ask that You will send gay springtime flowers, To deck each shell-torn meadow where their bodies rest. I ask that You will let them hear the joyous singing, Of some deep-throated bird whose heart tones throb and swell; God, let them feel the thrill that Easter time is bringing, That death is only life asleep—and all is well! AMEN.



INDEPENDENCE DAY—1919

Over the mists of a century they come, and their tramping feet Are light as the dust on the broad highway, or the wind that sways in the wheat; Out of the haze of the years between their shadowy hands stretch wide To welcome the heroes home again who have fought for their cause and died.

They went to battle at Concord Bridge, and they fell on Bunker Hill; The odds were great, but they struggled on with a stubborn Yankee will; They lay in the fields at Lexington when the sun in the west was red, And the next year's violets grew on the spot where their valiant blood was shed.

But they won in the end—with their broken guns and without much food to spare, Won at the end of a bitter war, by means that they knew were fair; And some of them wandered back to their plows, and some lay wrapped in the loam, And slept the sleep of the fearless heart that has fought at home—for home!

Fought for their homes, at home, they did—but these other boys today Fought for the homes of stranger folk three thousand miles away; FOUGHT FOR THE HONOR OF THE WORLD, and were not afraid to die In a muddy trench, in a foreign land, and under a foreign sky!

They fought on the Marne, at Belleau Wood; they swept through the mad Argonne; Chateau-Thierry was theirs to take; they took it and then surged on; And now that the fight they fought is won, though they lie in a far-off grave, Their souls come back to the land they loved—the land that they LEFT to save.

And so, through the damp of the sorry sea, through the wreck of the shell-torn plain, They are coming back to homes they loved—they are coming back again! And light as the wind that sways in the wheat, or the dust on the broad highway, They march to their rendezvous with the ones who died in the yesterday.



SHADOWS

You come to me at twilight, when the others, Are laughing in the fullness of their joy; When glad-eyed women folk, when wives and mothers, Are welcoming some other bronze-cheeked boy. You come to me, all silent, in the gloaming, A shadow form, with curly shadow hair— And, dear, I somehow feel that you are roaming Between two shadow worlds—the Here and There.

They ask me, do those others, why I wander Down dewy lanes, alone, at eventide— They do not know my heart's a shadow—yonder... They do not know that part of me has died. They do not know that your dear presence stands Just out of reach with misty, wide-flung hands!



L'ENVOI

Only we two, dear... and the candlelight, Seems to be softer than it was before, Country and city, vivid dream lands, war— Dear, they are very far from us to-night!

Woven of promise from life's golden loom, Pale threads of light have bound us heart to heart; Laughter and sorrow—they are things apart— ALL OF OUR WORLD IS IN THIS LITTLE ROOM.

Outside the branches sway, and winter weather Sweeps, with a cry of triumph, through the land Dear, it is springtime, when you touch my hand— Only we two, and magic, here together!

THE END