Before them, through a mist of years, in soldier buff or blue, Brave comrades from a thousand fields watch now in proud review; The same old Flag, the same old Faith,--the Freedom of the World-- Spells Duty in those flapping folds above long ranks unfurled. Strong are the hearts which bear along Democracy’s advance, As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France. The word rings out; a million feet tramp forward on the road, Along that path of sacrifice o’er which their fathers strode. With eager eyes and cheeks aflame, with cheers on smiling lips, These fighting men of ’17 move onward to their ships. Nor even love may hold them back, nor halt that stern advance, As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France. “AS SHE IS SPOKE” BOSTON TRANSCRIPT I’ve heard a half a dozen times Folks call it Reims. That isn’t right, though, so it seems, Perhaps it’s Reims. Poor city ruined now by flames-- Can it be Reims?-- That once was one of France’s gems-- More likely Reims. I’ll get it right sometime, perchance; I’m told it’s Reims. THE SPIRES OF OXFORD (SEEN FROM THE TRAIN) WINIFRED M. LETTS From “The Spires of Oxford and Other Poems,” by Winifred M. Letts, published and copyright, 1917, by E. P. Dutton & Company, New York. Special permission to reproduce in this book. I saw the spires of Oxford As I was passing by, The gray spires of Oxford Against a pearl-gray sky. My heart was with the Oxford men Who went abroad to die. The years go fast in Oxford, The golden years and gay, The hoary colleges look down On careless boys at play. But when the bugles sounded--War! They put their games away. They left the peaceful river, The cricket field, the quad, The shaven lawns of Oxford To seek a bloody sod-- They gave their merry youth away For country and for God. God rest you, happy gentlemen, Who laid your good lives down, Who took the khaki and the gun Instead of cap and gown. God bring you to a fairer place Than even Oxford town. THE GENTLEMEN OF OXFORD NORAH M. HOLLAND IN EVERYWOMAN’S WORLD The sunny streets of Oxford Are lying still and bare. No sound of voice or laughter Rings through the golden air; And, chiming from her belfry, No longer Christchurch calls The eager, boyish faces To gather in her halls. The colleges are empty. Only the sun and wind Make merry in the places The lads have left behind. But, when the trooping shadows Have put the day to flight, The Gentlemen of Oxford Come homing through the night.