Page:Canadian poems of the great war.djvu/126

 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;