Yet greet for us our fatherland, And kiss for us her sacred strand. These mounds shall tell the years to be Of men who died to make her free. THE NIGHTINGALES OF FLANDERS GRACE HAZARD CONKLING IN EVERYBODY’S MAGAZINE Permission to reproduce in this book. “Le rossignol n’est pas mobilise.”--A French Soldier The nightingales of Flanders, They had not gone to war; A soldier heard them singing Where they had sung before. The earth was torn and quaking, The sky about to fall; The nightingales of Flanders, They minded not at all. At intervals we heard them Between the guns, he said, Making a thrilling music Above the listening dead. Of woodland and of orchard And roadside tree bereft, The nightingales of Flanders Were singing “France is left!” THE WIDOW MISS C. M. MITCHELL IN PUNCH Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of “Punch” My heart is numb with sorrow; The long days dawn and wane; To me no sweet tomorrow Will bring my man again. Yet must my grief be hidden-- Life makes insistent claim, And women, anguish-ridden, Their rebel hearts must tame. For while, my vigil keeping, I face the eternal law, Here on my breast lies sleeping The son he never saw. PERSHING AT THE TOMB OF LAFAYETTE AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR From Amelia Josephine Burr’s book of poems, “The Silver Trumpet.” Published and copyright, 1918, by George H. Doran Company, New York. Special permission to reproduce in this book. They knew they were fighting our war. As the months grew to years Their men and their women had watched through their blood and their tears For a sign that we knew, we who could not have come to be free Without France, long ago. And at last from the threatening sea The stars of our strength on the eyes of their weariness rose And he stood among them, the sorrow-strong hero we chose To carry our flag to the tomb of that Frenchman whose name A man of our country could once more pronounce without shame. What crown of rich words would he set for all time on this day? The past and the future were listening what he would say-- Only this, from the white-flaming heart of a passion austere, Only this--ah, but France understood! “Lafayette, we are here.” TRAINS LIEUT. JOHN PIERRE ROCHE From Lieutenant Roche’s book of poems, “Rimes in Olive Drab.” Robert M. McBride & Company, Publishers, New York. Copyright, 1918. Special permission to insert in this book.