Wilson MacDonald
That turned his plowshare in the flowers and sowed,
By the quiet, dreaming road,
His crop of gleaming crosses, row on row,
Flow, fag, in the soft wind; blow, bugles, blow.
Like as a river dries up in the light
Our tears have blown to vapour.
The airplanes drop down in their droning flight
Like floating paper.
The gun that camouflaged her brutal throat
In Bourlon's thicket
Shall dream tonight in wonder at the note
Of some lone cricket.
And, where a maddened cuirassier grew gory
In that wild, sudden clash of yesterday,
Some docile, blue-eyed youth will sing a story
And laughing, dancing children's feet will play.
The world is blown with colour like a flower
In this triumphant hour.
The great procession grows, their shining feet
Sandalled with dewy peace.
I watch them passing up the city street;
Gaining on life a new and wondrous lease.
Old men who pick up life like a broken rose
Which they had thrown away;
Old women who unbind their temple snows
Young maidens, all their spirits like the flow
Of the new melted snow;
Flow, flag, in the soft wind; blow, bugles, blow.
This that we hear is but a shining drop
In the glad sea of mirth.
The tide flows round the world and will not stop
Until it brims the earth.
The Bedouin Arab now invites his dance
Where the sandstorms croon;
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