F
��Sheila Rand
TO ONE WHO DIED IN ACTION
OR thirteen years,
Each first of June,
We marked our heights upon the schoolroom door.
With girlish jeers,
Each first of June,
I scoffed, O cousin, you must grow still more
If you would be as tall as I
Next first of June !
My solemn, pale-faced cousin, Fie !
To let me win the race.
Ah me! To-day,
This first of June,
They wrote that you in Flanders found a grave.
So now I say,
This first of June,
O pale-faced cousin, sleeping with the brave,
Would I could grow as tall as you
Next first of June,
And stride, as British heroes do,
With head above the clouds!
��T
HE Three-Flowered Avens bow most gracefully To purple-tinted grasses growing near. Thanks be to God for this sweet tranquil place, Where one forgets such things as race, And hate, and devastating war. Hark ! I can hear The piquant tantalizing trill Of Canada s most saucy mocking bird. O how describe the thrill Of joy one feels, when coming face to face With lissome Spring in all her finery!
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