Page:Marching Men - War Verses (1917).pdf/33



E know by many a tender token
 * When Indian-Summer days have come,

By rustling leaves in branches oaken
 * And by the cricket's sleepy hum.

By aspen leaves no longer shaken,
 * And by the river's silvered thread,

The oriole's swinging cup forsaken,
 * Emptied of music overhead.

By long slant lines on field and fallow,
 * By mellowing portals of the wood,

By silences that seem to hallow
 * And invite to solitude. . ..

Are there young hearts in France recalling
 * These dream-filled, blue Canadian days,

When gold and scarlet flames are falling
 * From beech and maple set ablaze?

Pluck they again the pale, wild aster,
 * The bending plume of golden-rod?

And do their exiled hearts beat faster
 * Roaming in thought their native sod?