And up to Heaven’s doorway floats, From the woods called Rouge-Bouquet, A delicate sound of bugle notes That softly say: Farewell— Farewell— (_Taps sounding in distance._) L’ENVOI Comrades true, Born anew, Peace to you; Your souls shall be where the heroes are, And your memory shine like the morning star, Brave and dear, Shield us here— Farewell! JOYCE KILMER, Sgt., Inf. Killed in action, July 30, 1918. Footnote 1: Copyright, 1918, Charles Scribner’s Sons. Copyright, 1919, George H. Doran Co. GOOD-BYE Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, We’re on the seas for France, We’re on our way to make them pay The piper for the dance. To starboard and to port Our paint-splotched convoys toss, Grim thunderbolts in rainbow garb, We jam a path across. Our guns are slugged and set To smack the U-boat’s eye— God help the Hun that tries his luck— Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, The decks are deep with men, We’re going out to God knows what, We’ll be back God knows when. Old friends are at our sides, Old songs drift out to sea, Oh, it is good to go to war In such a company. The sun is on the waves That race to meet the sky, Where strange new shores reach out to us— Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, A long and weary while, Through all the drab and empty days, Remember us and smile. Our good ship shoulders on Along a lane of foam, And every turn the screw goes round Is farther still from home. We’ll miss the things we left, The more the white miles fly, So keep them till we come again— Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye. THE FIELDS OF THE MARNE The fields of the Marne are growing green, The river murmurs on and on; No more the hail of mitrailleuse, The cannon from the hills are gone.