For through the sightless mercy of my days White visions come to me-- Beyond the dark I see. Not this worn, steadfast France, wan, gallant, spent, With eyes burned haggard by the spirit of the Maid And Charlotte of Normandy-- But France triumphant, high of heart, Smiling through throbbing drums On Rheims restored, Nancy, Alsace, Lorraine, In that new spring that comes-- The spring we halt and blind and dead bring back again To France! RAIN ON YOUR OLD TIN HAT LIEUT. J. H. WICKERSHAM Written at the battle front in France and sent to his mother, Mrs. W. E. Damon. Lieutenant Wickersham was killed in action September 14, 1918. The mist hangs low and quiet on a ragged line of hills, There’s a whispering of wind across the flat; You’d be feeling kind of lonesome if it wasn’t for one thing-- The patter of the raindrops on your old tin hat. An’ you just can’t help a-figuring--sitting here alone-- About this war and hero stuff and that, And you wonder if they haven’t sort of got things twisted up, While the rain keeps up its patter on your old tin hat. When you step off with the outfit to do your little bit, You’re simply doing what you’re s’posed to do-- And you don’t take time to figure what you gain or what you lose, It’s the spirit of the game that brings you through. But back at home she’s waiting, writing cheerful little notes, And every night she offers up a prayer And just keeps on a-hoping that her soldier boy is safe-- The mother of the boy who’s over there. And, fellows, she’s the hero of this great big ugly war, And her prayer is on that wind across the flat; And don’t you reckon maybe it’s her tears, and not the rain, That’s keeping up the patter on your old tin hat? THE ARMED LINER H. SMALLEY SARSON IN THE POETRY REVIEW The dull gray paint of war Covering the shining brass and gleaming decks That once re-echoed to the steps of youth. That was before The storms of destiny made ghastly wrecks Of peace, the Right of Truth. Impromptu dances, colored lights and laughter, Lovers watching the phosphorescent waves, Now gaping guns, a whistling shell; and after So many wandering graves. THERE ARE CROCUSES AT NOTTINGHAM WRITTEN IN THE TRENCHES Flanders, spring of 1917. Authorship unknown. Out here the dogs of war run loose, Their whipper-in is Death; Across the spoilt and battered fields We hear their sobbing breath. The fields where grew the living corn Are heavy with our dead; Yet still the fields at home are green And I have heard it said: That-- There are crocuses at Nottingham! Wild crocuses at Nottingham! Blue crocuses at Nottingham! Though here the grass is red.