For each is a brother away from home; And this we are sure is so, There’s a lonesome spot in his heart somewhere, And we want him to feel there are friends _right there_ In this foreign land, and so we dare To call out ‘Boys, hello!’ ‘Hello, American boys, Luck to you, and life’s best joys! American boys, hello!’ DE ROCHAMBEAU ON THE PRESENTATION OF AN AMERICAN BANNER TO CAMP ROCHAMBEAU BY THE MARQUISE DE ROCHAMBEAU AT TOURS, FRANCE, JUNE 1, 1918 Here is a picture I carry away On memory’s wall. A green June day, A golden sun in an amethyst sky, And a beautiful banner floating as high As the lofty spires of the city of Tours, And a slender Marquise, with a face as pure As a sculptured saint: while staunch and true In new-world khaki and old-world blue, Wearing their medals with modest pride, Her stalwart bodyguard stand at her side. Simple the picture; but much it may mean To one who reads into and under the scene, For there, in that opulent hour and weather, Two great Republics came closer together; A little nearer came land to land Through the magical touch of a woman’s hand. And once again as in long ago The grand old name of de Rochambeau Shines forth like a star, for our world to see— Our Land of the Brave, and our Home of the Free. AFTER Over the din of battle, Over the cannons’ rattle, Over the strident voices of men and their dying groans, I hear the falling of thrones. Out of the wild disorder That spreads from border to border, I see a new world rising from ashes of ancient towns; And the rulers wear no crowns. Over the blood-charged water, Over the fields of slaughter, Down to the hidden vaults of Time, where lie the worn-out things, I see the passing of kings. THE BLASPHEMY OF GUNS There must be lonely moments when God feels The need of prayer— Such lonely moments, knowing not anywhere, In any spot or place, In all the far recesses of vast space, Dwells any one to whom His prayers may rise, And then, methinks—so urgent is His need— God bids His prayers descend. He that has ears to hear, let him take heed, For much God’s prayers portend. God flings His solar system forth to be Finished by beings who befit each sphere. Not ours to pry the secrets out of Mars; Our work lies here. To star-folk leave the stars. There must be many worlds that give God care: Young worlds that glow and burn, Old worlds that freeze and fade. This world is man’s concern. Methinks God must be very much dismayed, Seeing the use we make of earth to-day, While loud we pray.