Within the walls of this cool, tranquil place

Lie wounded men from Northern battlefields;

With shattered limb, with wan and pain-streaked faces.

Safely they rest; they whom the Red Cross shields,

The roar of gun, the shriek of bomb and shell,

The shrapnel hissing through the awful din,

Are silenced here. A nearby chapel bell

Strikes the calm hours. Quietly within

The restful rooms the men lift up their eyes,

To that small crimson cross afloat in peaceful skies.

II

From rain-filled trench, from bare and blood-soaked

ground,

Where in low piles the dead and dying lie—

(The mitrailleuse has swept each ridge and mound

Where Frenchmen rushed to conquer or to die)

They bring them to us—broken, crippled boys,

White as the linen bands around the head.

And some may live. To some life's hopes and joys

Are growing dim—unto the glorious dead

Their souls depart. Ah! God will speed them well.

These gallant men who for their country fell.

III

From the White Alps up to the gray North Sea,

Along the Somme and Meuse the Army holds;

Calm in the certitude of Victory—

They see her shining on their banner's folds.

These injured boys have helped to do this deed.

Their strength and youth were gladly offered here,

That their dear land might once again be freed

From the black curse of war, and grief, and fear.

When Peace returns, let their great sacrifice

Remain forever holy in our eyes.

August, 1916.