T
��John Daniel Logan
The wooded, winding roads in Picardy
That echoed oft to lovers song Are now rude, iron trails in Picardy
O er which brave legions bear along To where men die for Right and Liberty,
And foemen die for Might and Wrong. Amid the lust of life insatiate
I overheard no threat of hate, But I saw Christ in form as Charity,
Speak peace with Death in Picardy.
A SOLDIER S SHRINES
WO secret shrines there are for me: The one a wayside calvary,
Low-canopied by fir and pine. And thither oft I steal away,
Kneel penitent and pray. Christ grants forgiveness, free, divine ; And Mary Virgin, grace benign ; And John, his tender charity. O welcome wayside calvary, O calm, secluded shrine, O sweet retreat of mine,
Whose holy peace brings blissful eucrasy!
Another shrine for me there is,
Recessed, inviolate, within The ruby chamber of my Love s pure heart; And only I, her devotee, I wis,
May duly enter in
And supplicate and worship there apart. Before her dear remembered Image now,
Unworthy worshipper, I bow: Her winsome graces are my Creed; Her low, meek speech, my Litany ; Her tender thoughts, my Rosary; And her Absolovo te, my strength for holier deed. O Heart of Mine, O Heart of Mine,
Whose secret chamber is my constant shrine!
�� �
