Trotting the roan horse Over the meadows, Purple of thistles, Purple of clover; Over the clay-brown path, All through the grass-lands, Glory of meadow flowers, Over! Come over! * * * * * On to the highway winding o’er the hill, White willow-bordered, grassy-banked; On through a village ruined and broken. Grass grows in the rubble-heaps, Poppies fill the courtyards, Swallows build in broken walls, And everything is still. * * * * * While at the corner--walk, O horse of mine, A Christ hangs from a crucifix beside a broken shrine. * * * * * On to the path at the side of the white road, Cantering, galloping, breasting the rise; Any road, every road, each is the right road, Facing the east, the sun in my eyes. * * * * * Trotting the roan horse Over the meadows, Purple of thistles, Purple of clover; Over the clay-brown path, Back through the grass-lands, All through the meadow flowers; Over! Come over! THERE WILL BE DREAMS AGAIN MABEL HILLYER EASTMAN IN MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE Permission to reproduce in this book There will be dreams again! The grass will spread Her velvet verdure over earth’s torn breast; By ragged shard, half-hid, where rust runs red, The soaring lark in spring will build her nest. There will be dreams again! The primrose pale Will shelter where the belching guns plowed deep; The trees will whisper, and the nightingale Chant golden monodies where heroes sleep. There will be dreams again! The stars look down On youthful lovers--oh, first love, how sweet! And men will wed, and childish laughter crown Life’s awe-compelling miracle complete. There will be dreams again! Oh, thou forlorn That crumbling trench or the slow heaving sea Hath snatched thy dead--oh, pray thee, do not mourn! There will be dreams--thy loved shall come to thee! THE BOY NEXT DOOR S. E. KISER IN THE SATURDAY EVENING POST Permission to reproduce in this book There used to be a boy next door Whom I often have longed to throttle; I’ve wished a thousand times and more That he had died while “on the bottle”! Oft in the past it has been hard For me to check my inclination, When he had cluttered up our yard, To hand him heavy castigation. With freckles on his tilted nose And ears that far in space protruded, He was not one, as heaven knows, To whom I in my prayers alluded. Derisively he showed his tongue And scorned the warnings which I gave him, But now I list myself among The ones who pray the Lord to save him.