Page:Poems of the Great War - National Relief Fund.djvu/33



AST year he drew the harvest home Along the winding upland lane; The children twisted marigolds And clover flowers, to deck his mane. Last year—he drew the harvest home!

To-day—with puzzled, patient face, With ears a-droop, and weary feet, He marches to the sound of drums, And draws the gun along the street. To-day—he draws the guns of war!

L. G. MOBERLY