I have a son who goes to France Tomorrow. I have clasped his hand-- Most men will understand-- And wished him, smiling, lucky chance in France. My son! At last the house is still-- Just the dog and I in the garden--dark-- Stars and my pipe's red spark-- The house his young heart used to fill Is still. He said one day, "I've got to go To France--Dad, you know how I feel!" I knew. Like sun and steel And morning. "Yes," I said, "I know You'll go." I'd waited just to hear him speak Like that. God, what if I had had Another sort of lad, Something too soft and meek and weak To speak! And yet! He could not guess the blow He'd struck. Why, he's my only son! And we had just begun To be dear friends. But I dared not show The blow. But now--tonight-- No, no; it's right; I never had a righter thing To bear. And men must fling Themselves away in the grieving sight Of right. A handsome boy--but I, who knew His spirit--well, they cannot mar The cleanness of a star That'll shine to me, always and true, Who knew. I've given him. Yes; and had I more, I'd give them too--for there's a love That asking, asks above The human measure of our store-- And more. Yes; it hurts! Here in the dark, alone-- No one to see my wet old eyes-- I'll watch the morning rise-- And only God shall hear my groan Alone. I have a son who goes to France Tomorrow. I have clasped his hand-- Most men will understand-- And wished him, smiling, lucky chance In France. _Emory Pottle_ IN FLANDERS FIELDS[H] [H] From "In Flanders Fields," by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, courtesy of G. P. Putnam's Sons, publishers. In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly, Scarce heard amidst the guns below. We are the dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved; and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe! To you from failing hands we throw The torch. Be yours to hold it high! If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. _John McCrae_ AMERICA'S ANSWER Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders dead. The fight that ye so bravely led We've taken up. And we will keep True faith with you who lie asleep, With each a cross to mark his bed, And poppies blowing overhead, Where once his own life blood ran red. So let your rest be sweet and deep In Flanders fields.