Child faces saddened, older than they should be,
And wiser than a lived-out span of years;
One wonders what those self same faces would be,
If they had never looked on pain—if tears
Had never been their portion; if the morrow,
Had never held the pallid ghost of care—
Child faces, graven deep with worlds of sorrow,
Until the light of childhood is not there!

Child faces, once agleam with carefree laughter,
Wide eyes, where smiles like baby rainbows grew;
They are the heritage of ever after,
They are the dreams that never will come true.
They are the words of fate that have been spoken,
And when the tumult of the war is gone,
They will remind a world that hearts were broken,
For, in their souls, France goes to meet her dawn!

AFTER HEARING MUSIC COMING FROM A
DEVASTATED FARMHOUSE

Just a little wisp of song played softly in the twilight,
Such a happy little song—and oh, the dusk is gray!
Such a joyous little song, and oh, the night is
coming—
Coming with the bitter chill that marks the death
of day.

Almost like a dance it is, it holds no hint of sorrow,
Almost like a waltz it is, to set the pulse a-thrill;
Not a hint of tears in it—and oh, the night is
coming—
Coming like a purple shroud across the purple hill!
Sad the little farmhouse is, the doors swing on their
hinges,
All the windows look like wounds, pitiful and bare,
And a shell has torn a gash in the broken roof of it,
But the music lilts along like a happy prayer.

Do pale ghostly fingers play on a ghostly violin?
(War has swept the countryside of the songs it
knew!)
Merry is the little tune—not a wistful questioning—
Merry with a rosy thrill of a dream come true.

Just a little wisp of song played softly in the twilight,
Such a happy little song—and oh, the dusk is gray!
Such a joyous little song, and oh, the night is
coming—
Coming with the bitter chill that marks the death
of day!