Here such an one lies dead for France. His trade To push a barrow stocked with thread, cheese, salt From town to town, under the azure vault, Through endless corridors of rustling shade. True to the sacred law of toil, he made His humble living as the Book commands, Till suddenly there burst upon his lands The thunder of the German cannonade. Poor hero! In the flash that smote him dead He saw his wife and children all in black Weeping about the cart that earned their bread-- The cart that, by his passionate impulse sped On immortality’s celestial track, Shone brighter than the Wain above his head. FRANCIS JAMMES IN SLEEP I dreamt (no “dream” awake--a dream indeed) A wrathful man was talking in the Park: “Where are the Higher Powers who know our need, Yet leave us in the dark? “There are no Higher Powers; there is no heart In God, no love”--his oratory here, Taking the paupers’ and the cripples’ part, Was broken by a tear. And next it seemed that One who did invent Compassion, who alone created pity, Walked, as though called, and hastened as He went Out from the muttering city; Threaded the little crowd, trod the brown grass, Bent o’er the speaker close, saw the tear rise, And saw Himself, as one looks in a glass, In those impassioned eyes. ALICE MEYNELL NOS MORTS Astres qui regardez les mondes où nous sommes, Pure armée au repos dans la hauteur des cieux, Campement éternel, léger, silencieux, Que pensez-vous de voir s’anéantir les hommes? A n’être pas sublime aucun ne condescend, Comme un cri vers la nue on voit jaillir leur sang Qui sur nos cœurs contrits lentement se rabaisse. --Morts divins, portez-nous un plausible secours! Notre douleur n’est pas la sœur de votre ivresse. Vous mourez! Concevez que c’est un poids trop lourd Pour ceux qui dans leur grave et brûlante tristesse Ont toujours confondu la Vie avec l’Amour. COMTESSE DE NOAILLES OUR DEAD [TRANSLATION] Stars that behold our world upon its way, Pure legions camped upon the plains of night, Mute watchful hosts of heaven, what must you say When men destroy each other in their might? Upon their deadly race each runner starts, Nor one but will his brothers all outrun! Ah, see their blood jet upward to the sun Like living fountains refluent on our hearts! O dead divinely for so great a faith, Help us, whose agony is but begun, For bitterly we yield you up to death, We who had dreamed that Life and Love were one. COMTESSE DE NOAILLES [Illustration: _CLAUDE MONET_ LANDSCAPE FROM AN EARLY COLOURED PASTEL] TWO SONGS OF A YEAR 1914-1915 I CHILDREN’S KISSES