  After the biting cold of the outer night It seemed—(“Le Coq FranÇais”)—a palace of light, And its low roof black-timbered was most fine After the iron and sandbags of the line. Easy it was to be happy there! Madame, Frying a savoury mess of eggs and ham, Talking the while: of the War, of the crops, her son Who should see to them, and would, when the War was done. Of battalions who had passed there, happy as we To find a house so clean, such courtesy Simple, sincere; after vigils of frost The place seemed the seventh Heaven of comfort; lost In miraculous strange peace and warmth we’d sit Till the prowling police hunted us out of it— Away from cafÉ noir, cafÉ au lait, vin blanc, Vin rouge, citron, all that does belong To the kindly shelter of old estaminets, Nooked and cornered, with mirth of firelight ablaze— Herded us into billets; where candles must show Little enough comfort after the steady glow In blankets, hiding all but the crimson nose, To think awhile of home, if the frost would let Thought flow at all; then sleep, sleep to forget All but home and old rambles, lovely days Of maiden April, glamorous September haze, All darling things of life, the sweet of desire— Castles of Spain in the deep heart of the fire. |
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