Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/416

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Now they lie dead at Louvain,

Those simple kindly folk.

Some heard, some fled. It must be

Some slept, for they never woke.

I came to France. I was thirsty.

I sat me down to dine.

The host and his young wife served me

With bread and fruit and wine.

Now he lies dead at Cambrai—

He was sent among the first.

In dreams she sees him dying

Of wounds, of heat, of thirst.

At last I passed to Dover

And saw upon the shore

A tall young English captain

And soldiers, many more.

Now they lie dead at Dixmude,

The brave, the strong, the young!

I turn unto my homeland,

All my journey sung! Grace Fallow Norton

IGHTLY she slept, that splendid mother mine

Who faced death, undismayed, two hopeless years. ..

("Think of me sometimes, son, but not with tears

Lest my soul grieve," she writes. Oh, this divine

Unselfishness!). ..

Her favourite print smiled down—

The stippled Cupid, Bartolozzi-brown—

Upon my sorrow. Fire-gleams, fitful, played

Among her playthings—Toby mugs and jade. . ..