And when I came to Serbia, In a quiet little town At an inn with a flower-filled garden With a soldier I sat down. Now he lies dead at Belgrade. You heard the cannon roar! It boomed from Rome to Stockholm, It pealed to the far west shore. And when I came to Russia, A man with flowing hair Called me his friend and showed me A flowing river there. Now he lies dead at Lemberg, Beside another stream, In his dark eyes extinguished The friendship of his dream. And then I crossed two countries Whose names on my lips are sealed.... Not yet had they flung their challenge Nor led upon the field Sons who lie dead at Liège, Dead by the Russian lance, Dead in southern mountains, Dead through the farms of France. I stopped in the land of Louvain, So tranquil, happy, then. I lived with a good old woman, With her sons and her grandchildren. 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_ A MOTHER'S DEDICATION Dear son of mine, the baby days are over, I can no longer shield you from the earth; Yet in my heart always I must remember How through the dark I fought to give you birth. Dear son of mine, by all the lives behind you; By all our fathers fought for in the past; In this great war to which your birth has brought you, Acquit you well, hold you our honour fast! God guard you, son of mine, where'er you wander; God lead the banners under which you fight; You are my all, I give you to the Nation, God shall uphold you that you fight aright. _Margaret Peterson_ TO A MOTHER Robbed mother of the stricken Motherland-- Two hearts in one and one among the dead, Before your grave with an uncovered head I, that am man, disquiet and silent stand In reverence. It is your blood they shed; It is your sacred self that they demand, For one you bore in joy and hope, and planned Would make yourself eternal, now has fled. But though you yielded him unto the knife And altar with a royal sacrifice Of your most precious self and dearer life-- Your master gem and pearl above all price-- Content you; for the dawn this night restores Shall be the dayspring of his soul and yours. _Eden Phillpotts_ SPRING IN WAR-TIME I feel the spring far off, far off, The faint, far scent of bud and leaf-- Oh, how can spring take heart to come To a world in grief, Deep grief?