SCARS

Summer sweeps, like sad laughter, over France,
Touching the fields with flower-tinted mirth;
Bringing its wistful gladness to an earth
That has been stabbed with sorrow's bitter lance;
Bringing again the hint of old romance,
Bringing again the magic of re-birth;
Paying again the price that youth was worth—
OVER DIM WAYSIDE MOUNDS THE GRASSES DANCE!

Where there were shell holes summer sends, un-
heeding,
Blossoms to deck the broken country side;
Where, in another season, heroes, bleeding,
Fell for the cause of righteousness, and died,
Green creeper twines its vivid arms, half-pleading,
But there are scars that summer cannot hide!