THE PHOENIX

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!