The other house I used to love Before they burnt it overhead; My slaughtered man; the memory of Our daughter screaming in the red Embrace of Uhlans at my door, Her shrieks all silenced by their shout Of drunken fury--that was war, And my new home will shut it out. I shall not see the German hands That tear the baby from the breast; I shall not hear the plundering bands Laughing at murder: I shall rest. There Joy shall never riot in Nor robber sorrow find his way; Those shutters bar the call of Sin, And Duty has no debt to pay. So much I shall be heedless of, Serene, secure, dispassionate; _There_ is not anything to love; _There_ is not anything to hate. So in my house I shall forget All of the orgies and the strife, And find, past memory and regret, The Resurrection and the Life. TO HAPPIER DAYS MABEL McELLIOTT IN THE CHICAGO SUNDAY TRIBUNE Against the shabby house I pass each day (The town is strange, and all so new to see) Pink hollyhocks made friendly sport of me, With nod and smile and endless courtesy Enlive the lonely sameness of my way. Slim little maids in rosy morning frocks, They make a splash of color on the gray-- The sun so bright--a pity not to play, But this old world is sadly work-a-day, And I must hasten on, my hollyhocks! I like to think that somewhere, overseas, Perhaps in some neglected garden place, Shy flowers from home lean out with wayward grace-- Blue iris and the valley lilies’ lace-- Reminding them of happier times than these, ... Of happy times that are so soon to be, When they come marching home to us--our men-- The world’s work done, the land made clean again! YOUR LAD, AND MY LAD RANDALL PARRISH IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE Down toward the deep-blue water, marching to throb of drum, From city street and country lane the lines of khaki come; The rumbling guns, the sturdy tread, are full of grim appeal, While rays of western sunshine flash back from burnished steel. With eager eyes and cheeks aflame the serried ranks advance; And your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France. A sob clings choking in the throat, as file on file sweep by, Between those cheering multitudes, to where the great ships lie; The batteries halt, the columns wheel, to clear-toned bugle-call. With shoulders squared and faces front they stand a khaki wall. Tears shine on every watcher’s cheek, love speaks in every glance; For your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.