IV.— BEHIND THE LINES: NIGHT, FRANCE

At the cross-roads I halt

And stand stock-still....

The linked and flickering constellations climb

Slowly the spread black heaven's immensity.

The wind wanders like a thought at fault.

Within the close-shuttered cottage nigh

I hear — while its fearful, ag'd master sleeps like the dead —

A slow clock chime

With solemn thrill

The most sombre hour of time,

And see stand in the cottage's garden chill

The two white crosses, one at each grave's head....

O France, France, France! I loved you, love you still;

But, Oh! why took you not my life instead?