Page:The Book of the Homeless (New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1916).djvu/98

 Là-bas, ces feuillaisons de haine;

C'est la terreur de ce temps-ci.

 

your dear voice said:

"Is the old spring-time dead,

And shall we never see

New leaves upon the tree?

"Shall the black wings of war

Blot out sun, moon and star,

And never a bud unfold

To the bee its secret gold?

"Where are the wind-flowers streaked,

And the wayward bramble shoots.

And the black-birds yellow-beaked

With a note like woodland flutes?"

No flower shall bloom this year

But the wild flame of fear

Wreathing the evil night

With burst of deadly light.

