No More Learning

Full well I know the hour when hope
Sinks dead, and 'round us everywhere
Hangs stifling darkness, and we grope
With hands uplifted in despair.

Courage! Look out, beyond, and see
The far horizon's beckoning span!
Faith in your God-known destiny!
We are a part of some great plan.

Because the tongues of Garrison
And Phillips now are cold in death,
Think you their work can be undone?
Or quenched the fires lit by their breath?

Think you that John Brown's spirit stops?
That Lovejoy was but idly slain?
Or do you think those precious drops
From Lincoln's heart were shed in vain?

That for which millions prayed and sighed,
That for which tens of thousands fought,
For which so many freely died,
God cannot let it come to naught.





THE AMERICAN VOLUNTEERS

MARIE VAN VORST

August, 1914-April, 1917
_In the long months before the United States entered the war many
Americans took service under the flag of France. _

NEUTRAL! America, you cannot give
To your sons' souls neutrality. Your powers
Are sovereign, Mother, but past histories live
In hearts as young as ours.
We who are free disdain oppression, lust
And infamous raid. We have been pioneers
For freedom and our code of honor must
Dry and not startle tears.

We've read of Lafayette, who came to give
His youth, with his companions and their powers,
To help the Colonies--and heroes live
In hearts as young as ours!

Neutral! We who go forth with sword and lance,
A little band to swell the battle's flow,
Go willingly, to pay again to France
Some of the debt we owe.





I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH. . .

ALAN SEEGER

[Sidenote: 1914, 1916]
_The writer of this was a member of the French Foreign Legion. He
was killed in action July 4, 1916. _


I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air--
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath--
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear. . .