W
��John Daniel Logan
And the Captains mark, in the dusky dawns,
The smile of God gild the rosy scar On his white young brow to a golden star,
While he roams with heroes the lilied lawns In the happy valley of Avalon.
WAR S NEW APOCALYPSE
HEN I, full-armed, marched forth through Picardy
(Not pleasant Picardy of yore), The spectacles I saw in Picardy
(In Picardy despoiled by war) Were not alone the wastes I thought would be,
Nor only deeds I should abhor, But I beheld in town, in trench, on plain
What may not be on earth again: The forms of Faith and Hope and Charity
Walk close with Death in Picardy.
The little village homes in Picardy,
Shell-wracked and tenantless and bare, Gaped lornly at the brown-clad soldiery
That trooped by blithe and debonair; But near the ruined Chateau Brevigny
I saw three wan- faced women fare Mongst wayside graves, smile sweet as holy nuns,
And bless the tombs of martyred sons. Then I knew Faith had found safe sanctuary
In widowed hearts in Picardy.
The once fair fields of fertile Picardy
(Oh, ruthless was the conqueror!) Stretched gray and fallow, far as I could see,
Unploughed save by the shards of war; But when I passed beyond Sainte Emelie
I glimpsed an old man, bent and hoar, At work afield while shells burst with their dread,
Fell deviltries above his head. Thus Hope held fast, and wove earth s livery
Of green and gold in Picardy.
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