Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/220

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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. Patrick R. Chalmers

HEN 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: