BOIS-ÉTOILÉ
WHAT legend of a star that fell
In falchion flight from heavenly flame
Brought to some poet-peasant's mind
The haunting sweetness of thy name?
War marked thee in thy sylvan sleep—
A spoil too pure for Hell to spare—
Seamed earth, stark, splintered trunks, proclaim
That Bois-Étoilé once was fair.
O wrecked and ravaged Wood of Stars!
The lights that named thee have not set!
In lovelier groves than even thine
France forges victory from them yet!
O green place on a glorious earth,
Thine, too, the martyr's meed shall be;
With Rheims and Ypres, there shall be found
A space on History's page for thee.
Nor shalt thou lose thine olden trick—
The winds of Peace thy leaves shall stir;
(Unbudded Aprils yearn, adream,
To keep dead springtides' trysts with her!).
GOING TO THE FRONT
I HAD no heart to march for war
When trees were bare and fell the snow;
To go to-day is easier far
When pink and white the orchards blow,
While cuckoo calls and from the lilac bush
Carols at peace the well-contented thrush.