Blooms of the apple and cherry
Toil for the far-off hours;
Never is idleness merry,
In song of the garden bowers.
Brooks to the sea from mountains,
Yea, and from field and vine:
Rain and the sun are fountains
That gather for wheat and wine.
Cellar and loft shall glory,
Table and hearth shall praise,
Hearing October's story
Of June and the merry days.
10
A BALLAD OF FRANCE
Ye who heed a nation's call
And speed to arms therefor,
Ye who fear your children's march
To perils of the war,--
Soldiers of the deck and camp
And mothers of our men,
Hearken to a tale of France
And tell it oft again.
* * *
In the east of France by the roads of war,
(God save us evermore from Mars and Thor!}
Up and down the fair land iron armies came,
(Pity, Jesu, all who fell, calling Thy name).
Pleasant all the fields were round every town,
Garden airs went sweetly up, heaven smiled down;
Till under leaden hail with flaming breath,
Graves and ashen harvest were the keep of death.
One little town stood, white on a hill,
Chapel and hostel gates, farms and windmill,
Chapel and countryside met the gunner's path,
Till no blade of kindly grass hid from his wrath.
Lo! When the terrain cleared out of murky air,
When mid the ruins stalked death and despair,
One figure stood erect, bright with day,--
Christ the Crucified, though His Cross was shot away.
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