You picture the days of your youthful joys, The old home circle, the girls and boys You knew in that wonderful world of pleasure, When life danced on to a lilting measure; Each scene you treasure, thinking of Home, dear Home. And here is a thought that is sweet and true— The ones you long for are longing for you. You picture the day when the war is done, The duty accomplished, the victory won, And over the billows our ships go leaping, Into our beautiful harbour sweeping, And with laughter and weeping, you go back Home, Home, Home. On the walls of your heart you must hang with care This beautiful picture, framed in prayer. Thinking of Home, you are blazing a trail For that glorious day when our ships shall sail; Where the Goddess of Liberty lights the water To guide you back from the fields of slaughter, Fair Freedom’s daughter, who welcomes us Home, Home, Home. So hold your vision, and work and pray, As you dream of the Home that is far away. THE SWAN OF DIJON I was in Dijon when the war’s wild blast Was at its loudest; when there was no sound From dawn to dawn, save soldiers marching past, Or rattle of their wagons in the street. When every engine whistle would repeat Persistently, with meaning tense, profound, ‘We carry men to slaughter’ or ‘we bring Remnants of men back as war’s offering.’ And there in Dijon, the out-gazing eye Grew weary of the strife-suggesting scene; But, searching, found one quiet spot hard by Where war was not; a little lake whereon Moved leisurely a stately, tranquil swan, Majestic and imposing, yet serene. I was in Dijon, when no sound or sight Woke thoughts of peace, save this one speck of white, Sailing ’neath skies of menace, unafraid While silver fountains for his pleasure played. Dear Swan of Dijon, it was your good part To rest a tired heart. VEILS Veils, everywhere float veils; veils long and black, Framing white faces, oft-times young and fair, But, like a rose touched by untimely frost, Showing the blighting marks of sorrow’s track. Veils, veils, veils everywhere. They tell the cost Of man-made war. They show the awful toll Paid by the hearts of women for the crimes, The age-old crimes by selfishness ill-named ‘Justice’ and ‘Honour’ and ‘The call of Fate’— High words men use to hide their low estate. About the joy and beauty of this world A long black veil is furled. Even the face of Heaven itself seems lost Behind a veil. It takes a fervent soul In these tense times To visualise a God so long defamed By insolent lips, that send out prayers, and prate Of God’s collaboration in dark deeds, So foul they put to shame the fiends of hell.