Soft are the voices when speaking your name, Proud are their glories when hearing your fame. And the gladdest hour in their lives will be When they greet you after the victory. THE GOLDENROD “ANCHUSA” FROM B. L. T.’S COLUMN IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE Some day the fields of Flanders shall bloom in peace again, Field lilies and the clover spread where once was crimson stain, And a new, cheerful golden spray shine through the sun and rain. The clover’s for the English who sleep beneath that sod, The lily’s for the noble French whose spirits rest with God, But where our sacred dead shall sleep must bloom the goldenrod. For every flower of summer those meadows will have room, And yet I think no Flemish hand will touch the kaiser-bloom, Whose growing blue must evermore whisper of grief and doom. But clover for the English shall blossom from the sod, And glorious lilies for the French whose spirits rest with God. And where our own lads lie asleep the prairie goldenrod. Once more the Flemish children shall laugh through Flemish lanes, And gather happy garlands through fields of bygone pains, And, as they run and cull their flowers, sing in their simple strains: “These clovers are for English who fought to save this sod, These lilies for the valiant French--may their souls rest in God! And for the brave Americans we pluck this goldenrod.” MAGPIES IN PICARDY “TIPCUCA” IN THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE The magpies in Picardy Are more than I can tell. They flicker down the dusty roads And cast a magic spell On the men who march through Picardy, Through Picardy to hell. (The blackbird flies with panic, The swallow goes like light, The finches move like ladies, The owl floats by at night; But the great and flashing magpie He flies as artists might.) A magpie in Picardy Told me secret things-- Of the music in white feathers, And the sunlight that sings And dances in deep shadows-- He told me with his wings. (The hawk is cruel and rigid, He watches from a height; The rook is slow and somber, The robin loves to fight; But the great and flashing magpie He flies as lovers might.) He told me that in Picardy, An age ago or more, While all his fathers still were eggs, These dusty highways bore Brown, singing soldiers marching out Through Picardy to war. He said that still through chaos Works on the ancient plan, And that two things have altered not Since first the world began-- The beauty of the wild green earth And the bravery of man. (For the sparrow flies unthinking And quarrels in his flight. The heron trails his legs behind, The lark goes out of sight; But the great and flashing magpie He flies as poets might.) SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE, 1918