And some of them they stumbled on the slippery summer grass,
And there they've left them lying with their faces to Alsace;
The others—so they'd tell you—ere the chestnut's decked for spring,
Shall march beneath some linden trees to call upon a King;
Flic flac, flic flac, to call upon a King.
THE BALLAD OF ST. BARBARA[1]
[St. Barbara is the patroness of artillery, and of those who are in fear of sudden death.]
WHEN the long grey lines came flooding upon Paris in the plain,
We stood and drank of the last free air we never could love again;
They had led us back from a lost battle, to halt we knew not where,
And stilled us; and our gaping guns were dumb with our despair.
The grey tribes flowed for ever from the infinite lifeless lands,
And a Norman to a Breton spoke, his chin upon his hands:
"There was an end to Ilium; and an end came to Rome;
And a man plays on a painted stage in the land that he calls home.
Arch after arch of triumph, but floor beyond falling floor,
That lead to a low door at last: and beyond there is no door."
The Breton to the Norman spoke, like a little child spake he,
But his sea-blue eyes were empty as his home beside the sea:
- ↑ Written on the anniversary of the Battle of the Marne.