No More Learning

See there a mound of powdered stones, all flattened,
smashed, and torn,
Gone black with damp and green with slime? --Ere
you and I were born
My father's father built a house, a little house and
bare,
And there I brought my woman home--that heap of
rubble there!
The soil of France! Fat fields and green that bred my
blood and bone!
Each wound that scars my bosom's pride burns deeper
than my own.

But yet there is one thing to say--one thing that
pays for all,
Whatever lot our bodies know, whatever fate befall,
We hold the line! We hold it still! My fields are No
Man's Land,
But the good God is debonair and holds us by the
hand.
"_On les aura! _" See there! and there I soaked heaps
of huddled, grey!
My fields shall laugh--enriched by those who sought
them for a prey.

_James H. Knight-Adkin_




TO AN OLD LADY SEEN AT A GUESTHOUSE
FOR SOLDIERS


Quiet thou didst stand at thine appointed place,
There was no press to purchase--younger grace
Attracts the youth of valour. Thou didst not know,
Like the old, kindly Martha, to and fro
To haste.
Yet one could say, "In thine I prize
The strength of calm that held in Mary's eyes. "
And when they came, thy gracious smile so wrought
They knew that they were given, not that they bought.
Thou didst not tempt to vauntings, and pretence
Was dumb before thy perfect woman's sense.
Blest who have seen, for they shall ever see
The radiance of thy benignity.

_Alexander Robertson_




THE CASUALTY CLEARING STATION


A bowl of daffodils,
A crimson-quilted bed,
Sheets and pillows white as snow--
White and gold and red--
And sisters moving to and fro,
With soft and silent tread.

So all my spirit fills
With pleasure infinite,
And all the feathered wings of rest
Seem flocking from the radiant West
To bear me thro' the night.

See, how they close me in.
They, and the sisters' arms.
One eye is closed, the other lid
Is watching how my spirit slid
Toward some red-roofed farms,
And having crept beneath them slept
Secure from war's alarms.

_Gilbert Waterhouse_




HILLS OF HOME


Oh! yon hills are filled with sunlight, and the green
leaves paled to gold,
And the smoking mists of Autumn hanging faintly
o'er the wold;
I dream of hills of other days whose sides I loved to
roam
When Spring was dancing through the lanes of those
distant hills of home.

The winds of heaven gathered there as pure and cold
as dew;
Wood-sorrel and wild violets along the hedgerows
grew,
The blossom on the pear-trees was as white as flakes
of foam
In the orchard 'neath the shadow of those distant
hills of home.

The first white frost in the meadow will be shining
there to-day
And the furrowed upland glinting warm beside the
woodland way;
There, a bright face and a clear hearth will be waiting
when I come,
And my heart is throbbing wildly for those distant
hills of home.

_Malcolm Hemphrey_




THE RED CROSS SPIRIT SPEAKS


Wherever war, with its red woes,
Or flood, or fire, or famine goes,
There, too, go I;
If earth in any quarter quakes
Or pestilence its ravage makes,
Thither I fly.

I kneel behind the soldier's trench,
I walk 'mid shambles' smear and stench,
The dead I mourn;
I bear the stretcher and I bend
O'er Fritz and Pierre and Jack to mend
What shells have torn.

I go wherever men may dare,
I go wherever woman's care
And love can live,
Wherever strength and skill can bring
Surcease to human suffering,
Or solace give.