“THEY”

Whoso has gift of simple speech

Of measured words and plain,

To him be given it to teach

The sadness of Lorraine.

She asked but sun and rain to bless

Her blue enfolding hills,

And time, to heal the old distress

Of dim-remembered ills.

The fields, the vineyards and the lathe,

The river, loved so well —

O sunset pools and lads that bathe

Along the green Moselle.

One whispered word — curt, bitter, brief,

Lives now in black Lorraine,

One word that sums her whole of grief —

Dead children, women slain.

The cure's blood that stained the road,

The village burned away,

The needless horrors men abode

Are all in one word — they.