They came from Chateau Thierry—     From Fere-en-Tardenois— From Soissons, Oulchy-le-Chateau, From Rheims and Fismes, where blow by blow, ’Cross Marne and Oureq and Vesle aflow     They hammered them afar. And now upon the screen is thrown     An old familiar form: ’Tis Charlie of the strong appeal, At skating-rink or riot meal, And every mirth-producing reel     Awakes the farthest dorm. The aching head, the splintered arm,     The weary, dragging feet; The wound that took a month to drain— The everlasting, gnawing pain— Are all forgot and gone again     When Charlie strikes the street. Your esoteric shrug and sneer     And call him crude and quaint; But we who’ve seen him “over here”— Who’ve heard the laugh that brings the tear— Who’ve heard the bellowing roar and cheer—     _We_ call him Charles the Saint. TWO WORLDS. Here in the Jardin des Plantes of Nantes     I sit in the nickering shade, Watching the scampering children play—     And the way of a man and a maid— And the noble women of France in the black     Of a Nation unafraid. The lace of the shadows across the paths     Where the warm sun niters through, And the open vista between the trees,     With the swan pond half in view, And the flowers and sloping lawns and the pines     ’Neath an arch of Brittany’s blue. The air is soft as a day in June,     The blossoms manifold Throw streaks and patches of rainbow hue     Across the green and gold, And earth and sky in witchery     Entwine you in their hold. And it comes to me, Can it really be     But two full moons have fled, Since I limped from a scarred and riven field     Where lay the newly dead, Bathed in the light of a splendid fight,     And blotched with their blood’s own red. A world of crimson slaughter     Where the grim locked legions sway— And the mad machine guns whistle     Their endless roundelay— And the sinister sound of the thundering pound     Of the great guns night and day. Night and day, night and day,     With scarce a pause between, As out of the empty dark a voice     From the farthest hills unseen, Comes whirling, swirling, shrieking down     Where the helpless front lines lean. .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    . The air is soft as a morn in June—     The filmy shadows sway; And only the joyous music     Of the prattle of children at play, And the gentle rustle of whispering leaves     That tell of the closing day. EMBARKATION HOME. If you’re a homebound soldier     Who’s done his little best, And you are going ’board the boat     At St. Nazaire or Brest, Bordeaux or any other port,     Steam-up and headed west: If you are full o’ the joy o’ life     And “pep” and all that stuff; And the ozone permeates your soul     And makes you gay and bluff, Don’t turn and yell, “Who won the War?—     The M Ps,”—Can that guff.