Yet One _does_ dwell In Secret Centres of the Universe— The Mighty Maker; and He hears and heeds The still small voice of soulful, selfless faith; And He is lifting now the veil of death, So long down-dropped between those worlds and earth. Yea! He is giving faith a great new birth By letting echoes from the hidden places Where dwell our dead, fall on love’s listening ear. Hearken, and you shall hear The messages which come from those star-spaces! That is the reason why God let so many die; That the vast hordes of suffering hearts might wake Mighty vibrations, and the silence break Between the neighbouring worlds, and lift the veil ’Twixt life on earth, and life Beyond. All hail To great Jehovah, Who has given life Eternal, everlasting, after strife! Veils, long black veils, you shall be bridal white. Eyes, blind with tears, you shall receive your sight, And see your dead alive in Worlds of Light. IN FRANCE I SAW A HILL In France I saw a hill—a gentle slope Rising above old tombs to greet the gleam From soft spring skies. Beyond these skies dwells hope, But those green graves bespeak a broken dream. There was a row of narrow beds, new-made; Each bore a starry banner and a cross. And each the name of one who, ere he played His rôle of warrior, met earth’s final loss. They were so young, so eager for the fray! And thoughts of glory filled each boyish heart, When over dangerous seas they sailed away To face the foe and play some splendid part. But in the tedious toil, the dull routine Which must precede achievement on the field, Disease, that secret enemy with mean Sly tactics, forced them to disarm and yield. So they were buried on that hill in France, Before their ears had heard the battle din; Before life gave them its dramatic chance— A lasting fame, or glorious death to win. Yet, looking up beyond their graves of green, I seem to see them wearing band and star; Men are rewarded in the Worlds Unseen Not for the way they die, but what they are. AMERICAN BOYS, HELLO! Oh! we love all the French, and we speak in French As along through France we go. But the moments to us that are keen and sweet Are the ones when our khaki boys we meet, Stalwart and handsome and trim and neat; And we call to them—‘Boys, hello!’ ‘Hello, American boys, Luck to you, and life’s best joys! American boys, hello!’ We couldn’t do that if we were at home— It never would do, you know! For there you must wait till you’re told who’s who, And to meet in the way that nice folks do. Though you knew his name, and your name he knew— You never would say ‘Hello, hello, American boy!’ But here it’s just a joy, As we pass along in the stranger throng, To call out, ‘Boys, hello!’