The ruined wheat fields lying in the sun
Will smile again, e'er many seasons pass;
The crooning breeze will sway the golden grass,
The way it did before a blazing gun,
Mowed down the meadow poppies in red heaps;
And battered villages will rise anew,
And homes will stand where one-time gardens grew,
And, in dim forests where an army sleeps,
The little birds will sing their evening songs,
The way they did before a blasting rain,
Of shrapnel cut their tiny nests in twain;
For France will rise, triumphant, from her wrongs—

Yes, France will rise once more in faith, and pave
Her roads anew with shattered stones of life,
Her songs will rise, once more, above the strife—
But what about the hearts that gave—and gave!

A PRAYER ON EASTER FOR OUR BOYS
KILLED IN ACTION

Dear God, they will not come again, those lads of
ours,
Who went to fight with honor's foe across the sea—
Who died with eyes set straight ahead, amid the
showers
Of shrapnel, as they cleared a path to victory,
They will not come again... And it is Easter
weather,
And all the world is waking to the call of life,
But they lie sleeping, Over There, our lads, together,
Who died before their hearts could know the end
of strife.

Dear God, they will not come again, those lads of
ours,
Who left this land so gallantly to do their best—
And so I ask that You will send gay springtime
flowers,
To deck each shell-torn meadow where their bodies
rest.
I ask that You will let them hear the joyous singing,
Of some deep-throated bird whose heart tones
throb and swell;
God, let them feel the thrill that Easter time is
bringing,
That death is only life asleep—and all is well!
AMEN.