Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/412

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Only the very old

Gifts that the night-star brings,

Dear homely evening-things,

Dear things of all the world,

And yet my throat locks tight. . . ..

Somewhere far off I know

Are ashes on red snow

That were a home last night. Margaret Widdemer

SONG

VER the twilight field,

Over the glimmering field

And bleeding furrows, with their sodden yield

Of sheaves that still did writhe,

After the scythe;

The teeming field, and darkly overstrewn

With all the garnered fullness of that noon—

Two looked upon each other.

One was a Woman, men had called their mother:

And one the Harvest Moon.