And there were always other things to think of-- There's lots of things a man has got to think of-- His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife; And so we only thought of You on Sunday-- Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday-- Because there's always lots to fill one's life. And, all the while, in street or lane or byway-- In country lane, in city street, or byway-- You walked among us, and we did not see. Your feet were bleeding as You walked our pavements-- How _did_ we miss Your Footprints on our pavements?-- Can there be other folk as blind as we? _Now_ we remember; over here in Flanders-- (It isn't strange to think of You in Flanders)-- This hideous warfare seems to make things clear. We never thought about You much in England-- But now that we are far away from England-- We have no doubts, we know that You are here. You helped us pass the jest along the trenches-- Where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches-- You touched its ribaldry and made it fine. You stood beside us in our pain and weakness-- We're glad to think You understand our weakness-- Somehow it seems to help us not to whine. We think about You kneeling in the Garden-- Ah! God! the agony of that dread Garden-- We know You prayed for us upon the Cross. If anything could make us glad to bear it-- 'Twould be the knowledge that You willed to bear it-- Pain--death--the uttermost of human loss. Though we forgot You--You will not forget us-- We feel so sure that You will not forget us-- But stay with us until this dream is past. And so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon-- Especially, I think, we ask for pardon-- And that You'll stand beside us to the last. L. W. _By permission of "The Spectator"_ THE BLIND MAN AND HIS SON (_1915_) "The distant boom of angry guns No longer fills my ear. Oh! whither have we fled, my son? Tell me, that I may hear." "Father, we are in England!" "No more I hear the stormy wind Amid the rigging roar. I feel beneath my tottering feet The firm ground of the shore. Is this the end of all our woes? Shall we not suffer more?" "Father, we are in England!" "I hear the sound of kindly speech, But do not understand; I feel I've wandered very far, Far from the fatherland; How comes it that these tones are not Those of an unknown land?" "Father, we are in England!" "I feel in all the air around Freedom's sweet breath respire. I feel celestial fingers creep Along my quivering lyre; The birds, the trees, the babbling streams Speak to me of our home, Why does my grief less bitter grow And rest so dear become?" "Father, we are in England!"