Cross Roads

     We hurried, once, down the purple road,
        When a storm hung low in the sky;
     And we gained the door of Love's abode
        As the silver rain flashed by.
     Our steps rang out as we crossed the sill,
        And the place was dimly bright,
     And even our hearts seemed strangely still,
        While our searching hands clasped tight.

     We waited there while the wind moaned past
        And the thunder crashed in the air;
     And the door of Love's abode blew fast,
        But we didn't know—or care!
     For we heard a song in the driving rain,
        And the sky seemed warmly gray;
     And the tempest rang with a mad refrain,
        And the world seemed years away.
        .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

     We have wandered far from the road of dreams,
        We have crept from the house of love;
     And the scorching sun of the noonday gleams
        From the pitiless sky above.
     But once, ah, once—in that dusky place,
        When the lightning flashed through the air,
     I saw its flame on your upturned face,
        And its glow on your vivid hair.

     We have strayed away—we have strayed away—
        For the world is all too wide....
     But once I came through the stormy day,
        And you walked, proud, at my side.
     AND, OH, FOR THE FEEL OF THE RAIN AGAIN,
        AND, OH, FOR THE PURPLE ROAD,
     AND, OH, FOR THE JOY AND THE PAIN AGAIN,
        THAT WE KNEW IN LOVE'S ABODE!

     How long the days may seem, how long each night,
        (And yet, how short the evenings used to be!)
        How strange it is that I can never see,
     Warm pictures in the hearth that glows so bright.
     We used to watch the laughing firelight,
        And build dream castles in it—Ah, but we
        Built castles everywhere!  And now the sea
     Is swept between us.  You have gone to fight.

     And I—I wait and try to dream alone,
        And try to smile, to dance and laugh and sing;
        And, somehow, cannot think of anything,
     But just the thrilling roughness of your tone,
        The light that lights your eyes, your lips that
           cling,
     And love—the flame of love that we have known!

     Knowing, dear, that my whole heart lies at rest
        Deep in the heart of you, I may sing a song
        Telling the tale of bitterness and wrong....
     Knowing, dear, that my head lay on your breast
     Only last night, I may sing of dreams that died,
        And hopes that never were born, and faith betrayed,
        Of weary feet that have left the road and strayed
     Out of the narrow way, to pastures wide.

     Dear, when my songs were gay, I did not know
        Whether you cared.  And so I had to sing
        Gladly, to mask grim fear—I had to bring
     Sunlight to point the path that I must go!
     Now that the clouds are silver sweet above,
        I may sing songs of sadness.  I am blessed
        Knowing, dear, that my whole heart lies at rest,
     Knowing, dear, that I have your love—your love!

KNOWING THAT YOU HAVE WALKED HER MUDDY ROADS
        WEARILY, AFTER BITTER TIMES OF FIGHTING;
     KNOWING THAT YOU HAVE CARRIED HEAVY LOADS
        OVER HER HILLS—WHILE I, AT HOME, WAS LIGHTING
     DIM YELLOW CANDLES ON THE MANTEL SHELF....
        KNOWING YOU SUFFERED AGONY AND LOSS,
        UNDER THE VERY SHADOW OF A CROSS—
     FRANCE HOLDS A BIT OF YOU—AND OF MYSELF!

     War came, one day, and drew us close together,
        Although it swept us many miles apart;
     The love that lay as lightly as a feather,
        Now rests, a precious weight, upon my heart.
     And all the dreams I dreamed for just the dreaming,
        Have taken on a meaning that is new;
     And somehow all the lonely world is seeming,
        To cry aloud my aching need of you!

     Because you were so much a part of living,
        Like sunshine and the freshness of the air,
     The priceless gift of faith that you were giving
        Seemed small to me.  Scarce knowing you were
           there
     I took your heart-strings in my careless fingers,
        And played a song as light as summer dew,
     And yet, today, its wistful echo lingers
        And fills an empty world with thoughts of you.

     I did not think that I would ever miss you,
        I did not dream the time would come to be
     When I would long to touch your hand, to kiss you—
        To hear your voice say tender words to me.
     I did not know that I would wonder whether
        My head would rest, once more, against your
           heart....
     War came, my dear, and drew us close together,
        Although it swept us many miles apart!

     I stood in the rain and watched you pass,
     I stood in the blinding rain....
     And I thought of a fragrant summer night,
     When the room was glowing with candlelight,
     And a shower beat on the window glass
     With a wonderful, low refrain.
     I thought of your arms that held me tight,
     And your eyes that were near and warmly bright;
     I thought of—all, as I watched you pass,
     And my soul was wrung with pain.

     "Tramp, tramp, tramp!" rang your column's tread.
     "Tramp, tramp, tramp!" through the street.
     (Ah, dear, it was summer once, and there
     Were flower scents on the misty air—
     Honeysuckle and mignonette, poignantly, sadly
        sweet!)
     "Tramp, tramp, tramp!" rang your column's tread,
     And my eyes were dim as I bowed my head;
     And my heart seemed broken and old and dead,
     Under your marching feet.

     I stood in the rain and watched you pass—
     There in the autumn rain....
     And I thought, my dear, of the night when you
     Had kissed me first.  (Ah, your eyes were blue,
     And very tender, and Heaven-true,
     There in the candlelight!)
     I thought of a misty summer night,
     When a shower fell on the vivid grass
     (There, through the rain, I watched you pass!)
     I thought of a mystic summer night
     That never may come again.

     "TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP!" RANG YOUR COLUMN'S TREAD,
     "TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP!" IN THE STREET;
     AND I TRIED TO SMILE—WITH A LIFTED HEAD—
     BUT MY HEART LAY, CRUSHED, AT YOUR FEET!

     To an American Aviator

     He went to battle in the mist-hung sky,
        Like some gold-hearted bird with pinions strong;
        He went with courage, with a snatch of song,
     In all his splendid youth!  And God on high
     Looked down with love to watch him dip and fly,
        Then lifted him to where the brave belong.
        He went to right a bleeding nation's wrong,
     And proved that he was not afraid to die!

     So we, who stare across the lonely hours,
        Must only think of that great gift he gave;
        Must think of other lives that his will save;
     And know that, when the tender, healing showers
     Have fallen in a stranger-land, the flowers
        Will bloom, like prayers, upon a hero's grave!

     A PEASANT GIRL SINGS

     Somewhere, Out There, he is—just a boy, that's all—
     (Laughter sparkled in his eyes—he was always
        singing!)
     Just a boy who answered when he heard his country's
        call;
     (Somewhere, Out There, he is—how my thoughts go
        winging—)
              Ready to do or dare,
              (Like sunlight was his hair,)
     Just a boy, a laughing boy,
                                  Somewhere, Out There.

     Idle my wheel, to-day, hushed is it's spinning—
     (Ah, but his eyes were blue—blue as the sea—)
     Somewhere, Out There, he is... Losing—or winning!
     (Boy with the carefree heart, come back to me!)
              Blood red the cannon's flare,
              (God, can you hear my prayer?)
     Keep him, my boy, from harm—
                                  Somewhere, Out There.

     THEY LAY TOGETHER IN THE SUN AND WAITED FOR THE END;
     SIDE BY SIDE, TOGETHER, BEARDED FOE AND FRIEND;
     JEAN FROM THE PLEASANT FIELDS OF SINGING, SOUTHERN
        FRANCE,
     JEAN FROM THE POPPY FIELDS SIGHING WITH ROMANCE;
     FRITZ FROM A FATHERLAND HE BLINDLY LOVED AND SERVED,
     FRITZ WHOSE SOFT-NOSED BULLETS HAD NEVER FLINCHED NOR
        SWERVED;
     AND PETER, WHOSE TIRED EYES WERE WIDE AND DEEP AND
        BROWN,
     PETER FROM DELANCEY STREET, IN NEW YORK TOWN.

        They didn't speak, these three,
        They didn't know each other's tongue;
        And, then,
        When men
        Whose songs are nearly sung
        Are lying side by side,
        Their breathing not so... free,
        The gulf is rather wide.

        In the sun they lay there;
        And Fritz's hair
        Was very bright.
        He was a foe
        To kill on sight—
        And yet the light
        Upon his hair was so,
        So very fair....

     Jean found himself remembering HER hair;
     Of palest gold it was, a magic snare
     To net men's soul in!  She had bade him go,
     Sobbing, "Je t'aime"—which means, "I love you so!"
     Her hair—her hands—her lips,
     Red as a sunset cloud when daytime slips
     Into the night.  No, redder!
                                   Like a flower
     That blooms upon the earth for just an hour;
     A poppy flower, fragile, soft....  HER LIPS
     Red as the heart-blood of a man, that drips
     Into eternity....
        Jean sighed,
        And died.

     PERHAPS HER LIPS WERE VERY NEAR—WHO KNOWS?
     WHEN EYES MUST CLOSE
     AGAINST THE SUN, AND LIFE, WHO CARES?
     ONE ONLY DARES
     TO WONDER!

     Fritz lay still.
     He felt the strength, the faith, the stubborn will,
     Drop from him like worn garments, till he lay
     Half-frightened in the burning light of day.
     He had killed many, yes....
     From under
     His tunic, gropingly, he drew a cross;
     He wondered would it make, for her, the loss
     A little less?
     Ah, to press
     His bearded lips once more upon her cheek,
     To hear her speak....

     Yes, he had killed, and killed—
     And he had thrilled
     To do it....
     But just to sit
     Beside her, in the shade,
     THAT had been paradise!
     Her soft arms laid
     About his throat....
     THEY STRANGLED HIM—
     His eyes grew dim....
     He choked—once... twice....

     Peter from Delancey Street, laughed with white-
        lipped pluck.
     "Dyin' side o' HIM!" he coughed.  "Ain't it rotten
        luck!
     "Poor guy, they got him, though—got him same as
        me...."
     Peter, from Delancey Street, stopped talking suddenly.

        He saw—
        A candy store,
        On the busy, smelly corner of a crowded city
           slum;
        He heard the hum
        Of traffic in the street,
        The sound of feet
        Upon the pavement; and he saw,
        Behind the counter there,
        THE GIRL.  She wore
        Her hair
        Plastered tight to her little shell-like ears.
        He felt her tears
        Upon his face
        The night he told her that he'd left his place,
        His steady paying job, to go and fight.

        "Good night!"
        He'd said to her.
        "Somebody's gotta go!
        Yerself, you know,
        We gotta STIR
        T'lick them fellers Over There!"
        Her slicked-back hair
        Had roughened up against his khaki sleeve,
        And she had cried:
        "Dear, MUST you leave?"
        And he had dried
        Her eyes, and smudged the powder on her
           nose....

        "Here goes!"
        Said Peter of Delancey Street.
        He saw
        A candy store—
        A city slum, a girl with plastered hair,
        Who waited there....

     THEY LAY TOGETHER IN THE SUN—BRAVELY TO THE END,
     SIDE BY SIDE, TOGETHER, BEARDED FOE AND FRIEND.
     JEAN FROM THE POPPY FIELDS, SIGHING WITH ROMANCE,
     JEAN FROM THE LAUGHTER-LILTING FIELDS OF SOUTHERN
        FRANCE;
     FRITZ FROM A FATHERLAND HE BLINDLY LOVED AND SERVED,
     FRITZ, WHOSE FAITH, ALTHOUGH BETRAYED, HAD NEVER
        FLINCHED OR SWERVED;
     AND PETER, WHOSE TIRED EYES WERE QUESTIONING AND
        BROWN,
     PETER, FROM DELANCEY STREET, IN NEW YORK TOWN.

     He wasn't, well, a fancy kind o' dog—
     Not Jim!
     But, oh, I sorter couldn't seem ter help
     A-lovin' him.
     He always seemed ter understand.
     He'd rub his nose against my hand
     If I was feelin' blue or sad.
     Or if my thoughts was pretty bad;
     An' how he'd bark an' frisk an' play
     When I was gay!

     A soldier's dog don't have much time ter whine
     Like little pets a-howlin' at th' moon.
     A soldier's dog is bound ter learn, right soon,
     That war is war, an' what a steady line
     Of men in khaki means.
                             (What, dogs don't know?
     You bet they do!  Jim-dog, he had ter go
     Along th' trenches oftentimes at night;
     He seemed ter sense it when there was a fight
     A-brewin'.  Oh, I guess he knew, all right!)
     I was a soldier, an' Jim-dog was MINE.

     Ah, what's the use?
     There never was another dog like him.
     Why, on th' march I'd pause an' call—"Hey, Jim!"
     An' he'd be there, his head tipped on one side,
     A-lookin' up at me with love an' pride,
     His tail a-waggin', an' his ears raised high....

     I wonder why my Jim-dog had ter die?
     He was a friend ter folks; he didn't bite;
     He never snapped at no one in th' night;
     He didn't hate a soul; an' he was GAME!
     An' yet... a spark o' light, a dartin' flame
     Across th' dark, a sneaky bit o' lead,
     An' he was... dead!

     They say there ain't no heaven-land for him,
     'Cause dogs is dogs, an' haven't any right;
     But let me tell yer this; without my Jim
     Th' very shinin' streets would seem less bright!
     An' somehow I'm a-thinkin' that if he
     Could come at that last stirrin' bugle call
     Up to th' gates o' gold aside of me,
     Where God stands smilin' welcome to us all,
     An' I said, "Father, here's my dog... here's
        Jim,"
     They'd find some corner, touched with love, fer him!

     I.  SOMEHOW

     Somehow I never thought that you would go,
        Not even when red war swept through the land—
     I somehow thought, because I loved you so,
        That you would stay.  I did not understand
     That something stronger than my love could come,
        To draw you, half-reluctant, from my heart;
     I never thought the call of fife and drum
        Would rend our cloak of happiness apart!

     And yet, you went... And I—I did not weep—
        I smiled, instead, and brushed the tears aside.
     And yet, when night-time comes, I cannot sleep
        But silent lie, while longing fights with pride—
     YOU ARE MY MAN, THE FOE YOU FIGHT MY FOE,
        AND YET—I NEVER THOUGHT THAT YOU WOULD GO!

     II.  I WONDER

     I wonder if you dream, across the night,
        When watchfires cut the vivid dark in twain,
     Of long dim rooms, and yellow candlelight,
        And gardens drenched in vaguely perfumed rain?
     I wonder if you think, when shot and shell
        And molten fire are singing songs of hate,
     Of that last throbbing moment of farewell
        When, in your arms, I promised you to wait!

     I wonder, should grim death reach out his hand,
        And speak, above the strife, of peace and rest;
     If you, alone in that dark stranger land,
        Would feel again my head upon your breast?
     And if, as light and love and living slips,
     Your prayer would be my kiss upon your lips....

     III.  SOME DAY

     Some day when on exultant feet you come
        Back through the streets that echo at your tread—
     My soul will thrill to hear the throbbing drum,
        And yet, perhaps, I'll sit with drooping head,
     Not caring, quite, to meet your steady gaze,
        Not daring, quite, to look into your eyes;
     Afraid because a weary stretch of days,
        Each one a million years, between us lies.

     My heart—my heart is ever yours to hold,
        And yet, while I have waited here for you,
     You have seen faith betrayed, and brave youth sold,
        You have seen meadows drenched in bloody dew—
     It may have changed you, and your eyes may be
     A little harder when they look at me!

     IV.  DREAM

     Sometimes I dream that you are back with me,
        And that with hands together clasped we go
     Like little children, young and glad and free,
        A-down a magic road we used to know.
     Sometimes I dream your eyes upon my face,
        And feel your fingers softly touch my hair....
     And when I wake from dreaming all the place,
        Seems lonelier because you are not there.

     What is a dream?  Not very much, they say,
        An idle vision made in castled Spain—
     Well, maybe they are right....  And yet, today,
        When all the warring world was swept with pain,
     The suffering and sorrow ceased to be,
     Because I dreamed that you were back with me!

     V.  UNDERSTANDING

     Now, when I stand in some great crowded place,
        I see the souls of other women stare
        Out of their eyes—And I can glimpse the care
     And worry that has banished light and grace
     From every life.  Upon each woman-face
        I see the mark of tears, the hint of prayer
        That, one short year ago, had not been there—
     I see what time will never quite erase!

     Before you left, I did not notice eyes—
        Because I knew that I might touch your hand,
        I did not dream the dread that swept our land...
     Ah, dear, the months have made me very wise!
        Now, one with everything, I understand,
     And heart meets heart and I can sympathize.

     VI.  THE WAKING

     Now war is over and a world set free,
        And youth returns, triumphant, to our land—
     And dear-heart, you'll be coming back to me,
        With eager lips, and tender outstretched hand!
     You will be coming as you came of old,
        At evening time, with laughter lilting gay;
     Glad of the little things that life may hold—
        And I will meet you in the self same way....

     Yes, in the shadows by my oaken door,
        I will be waiting as I used to wait—
     And I will feel that you are come, before
        I hear the clicking of the garden gate.
     And, in the darkness there, my pulse will leap,
     Reviving dreams that long have lain asleep!

     AFTER PEACE

     "I wonder what they're doin' home tonight?"
     Jim said—
     We sat there, in the yellow firelight,
     There, in a house in France—
     Some of us, maybe thinkin' of romance—
     Some of us missin' buddies who was dead—
     And some just dreamin'
     Sorter hardly seemin'
     Ter make th' dream come clear.

     An' then—Jim spoke—
     "I wonder what they're doin' home ternight?"
     Says Jim—
     An' some of us felt, well—as if we'd like
     Ter smother him!
     An' some of us tried hard-like not ter choke,
     Th' smoke
     Was pretty thick an' black!
     A-thinkin' back,
     Across th' ocean I could sort of see
     A little house that means just all ter me
     And, though nobody said a word I knew
     Their thoughts was goin' on th' self-same track—
     Thoughts do
     Out here, in France.

     Home—HOME—No wonder that we all was still—
     For one of us was thinkin' of a hill,
     With pine trees on it black against th' moon—
     And one of us was dreaming of a town,
     All drab an' brown—
     An' one of us was lookin'—far an' high
     Ter some one who had gone back home too soon
     To that real home that is beyond the sky.

     Nobody of us spoke fer quite a while—
     We didn't smile—
     We just sat still an' wondered when there'd be
     An order for ter send us home—
     Back 'crost the sea.
     Th' war was won—
     An' we was DONE!
     We wanted faces that we loved an' knew,
     An' voices too—

     We sat an' watched th' dancin' fire fling
     Its shadders on th' floor—
     Bright shapes, an' dim.
     An' then Jim coughed as if his throat was sore,
     An'—"Say—let's sing!"
     Says Jim.

     (A Returning Soldier Speaks)

     I am coming back with a singing soul through the
        surge of the splendid sea,
     Coming back to the land called home, and the love
        that used to be—
     I am coming back through a flash of spray, through
        a conquered tempest's hum,
     I am coming back, I am coming back....  But,
        God, do I want to come?

     I have heard the shriek of the great shells speak to
        the dawn of a flaming day;
     And a growling gun when the fight was won, and the
        twilight flickered gray,
     I have seen men die with their chins raised high, and
        a curse that was half a prayer—
     I have fought alone when a comrade's groan was
        tense on the blinding air.

     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?

     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!

     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.

     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.

     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!)

     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!

     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!