1914 TO 1918
PARIS. APRIL, 1916.
"Ils vantaient notre esprit, jamais notre endurance."
How silent are the streets of this grave town;
Discordant vanity is swept away,
And mourners everywhere pass up and down,
Sombring the radiance of an April day.
Here all men wear the inward, brooding look
Of a young mother, when her time is near,
Devoid of fear.
She knows the agony of hope still-born,
And, once before, her body racked and torn
Was at the last denied its victory.
Discordant vanity is swept away,
And mourners everywhere pass up and down,
Sombring the radiance of an April day.
Here all men wear the inward, brooding look
Of a young mother, when her time is near,
Devoid of fear.
She knows the agony of hope still-born,
And, once before, her body racked and torn
Was at the last denied its victory.
How can we understand,
Whose land inviolate was clogged with dreams?
They with a single purpose are imbued,
That like a mighty river onward streams
In multitudinous channels ruthlessly,
Past tangled isles and barriers of sand,
Until its irresistible waters roll
To their triumphal goal,
With all-embracing, silent fortitude.
Whose land inviolate was clogged with dreams?
They with a single purpose are imbued,
That like a mighty river onward streams
In multitudinous channels ruthlessly,
Past tangled isles and barriers of sand,
Until its irresistible waters roll
To their triumphal goal,
With all-embracing, silent fortitude.
9
