For the M Ps are a sacred caste     That boss the city street A hundred miles behind the Lines     Where dangers never greet, Nor roaming shells come swirling by,     Nor surging first waves meet. So if the long, tense session     Of soul-engulfing war, And “Prussian” discipline and rule,     And heart-enslaving law Say, “Open wide the throttle     Of lung and throat and jaw”— Repress that natural impulse,     For you’re not human—yet: Sedately up the gangplank walk,     Eyes front and lips tight set, Or you’ll come back and spend six weeks     In a mud-dump, nice and wet. The wind is blowing ’cross the bow,     The first smoke lags alee— The sun that’s broken through the clouds     Is dancing on the sea, So, homebound soldier, watch your step,     And take advice from me. THE STATUE OF LIBERTY. Sing of the Venus de Milo,     The lady without any arms; Sing of the Venus of this and of that,     And tell of their marvelous charms: Rave of your wonderful statues,     In divers lands here o’er the sea, In bushels and reams, but the Girl of our Dreams     Is our godmother, Miss Liberty. Its contour may not be perfection—     Its technique we really don’t know— If you ever asked, “Who was the artist?”     It would come as a _terrible_ blow. But to us it is home, friends and Country,     To us it means all that is best, ’Tis the first that lifts out of the waters     Of “Our little Gray Home in the West.” ’Tis the first on that endless horizon     Where the clouds meet the wind driven spume, And the scavenger gulls wing to greet us     From out of the gathering gloom— ’Tis the first that calls beckoning to us     Through the mist of the swaggering sea— “Oh lay down your guns my knight-errant sons,     And come back to the bosom of me.” PART II. PRE-WAR POEMS. TO FRANCE—1917. The sea that kisses France’s shore,     It beats on yours and mine. Her love and faith and chivalry,     That sparkle as her wine, With all our faith and all our love     Commingling combine. The colors of the flag of France     Are ours by hue and hue: The blazing red of courage—     The white of purpose true, And constancy and loyalty     Awoven in the blue. The spirit and the soul of France,     That shatter fetters free, They came to us in darkest days     To weld our destiny; And so with sword in hand we come     To pay our debt to Thee. To pay our debt a hundredfold—     Friend of our new-born years. To march with you and fight with you,     Till rise the final cheers— And hand in hand, o’er a grave-strewn land,     We blend our mingled tears. Where blends our blood as once it did     In days of a long gone When the Bourbon lilies leapt and gleamed     Among the Stars on high— And the white and crimson bands of dawn     Rose in the eastern sky.