They shall return when the wars are over, When battles are memories dim and far; Where guns now stand shall be corn and clover, Flowers shall bloom where the blood-drops are. They shall return with laughing faces, Limbs that are lithe and hearts new-born; Yea, we shall see them in old home-places, Lovelier yet in the light of morn. “TO THE IRISH DEAD” BY ESSEX EVANS The author of these heart-touching lines is a Queenslander of Welsh derivation. Sir Herbert Warren, K. C. V. O., of the University of Oxford, had this to say of him and of the Toast: “They say that no one but an Irishman understands Ireland, that she will listen to no one but an Irishman. Wales is near to her in geography and in race. I have thought she perhaps might listen to a Welsh voice. She has one today, now whispering, now ringing, across St. George’s Channel. Will she heed it? Who knows?” Tis a green isle set in a silver water, A fairy isle where the shamrock grows, Land of Legend, the Dream-Queen’s daughter-- Out of the Fairies’ hands she rose. They touched her harp with a tender sighing, A spirit-song from a world afar, They touched her heart with a fire undying To fight and follow her battle-star. Too long, too long thro’ the grey years growing Feud and faction have swept between The thistledown and the red rose blowing, And the three-fold leaf of the shamrock green; But the seal of blood, ye shall break it never: With rifles grounded and bare of head We drink to the dead who live forever-- A silent toast--To the Irish dead! VISION DOROTHY PAUL IN THE SATURDAY EVENING POST Permission to reproduce in this book Above the broken walls the apple boughs Are murmurous with bees; Again the slumbrous breeze Eddies the snow of drifted chestnut flowers, And little ruffling winds go silverly Along the poplar trees. They never speak of it to me, My comrades. Awkward-kind I hear their voices roughen and grow dumb, Remembering I am blind-- But through the dark, I know--I know the spring has come To France! What matter I’ll not see beneath the wheat Red poppies burn again; The gleam of April rain Along the boulevards; the flower girls With mignonette and pinks and clematis; Not see again the Seine Slip under the silver bridges to Rouen? Ah, no; nor see The pale gold smile of buttercups, that glorifies Gray ruins with bravery Heartbreaking, valiant--the smile that lights the eyes Of France!