TWO WORLDS.

Here in the Jardin des Plantes of Nantes

I sit in the nickering shade,

Watching the scampering children play —

And the way of a man and a maid —

And the noble women of France in the black

Of a Nation unafraid.

The lace of the shadows across the paths

Where the warm sun niters through,

And the open vista between the trees,

With the swan pond half in view,

And the flowers and sloping lawns and the pines

‘ Neath an arch of Brittany's blue.

The air is soft as a day in June,

The blossoms manifold

Throw streaks and patches of rainbow hue

Across the green and gold,

And earth and sky in witchery

Entwine you in their hold.

And it comes to me, Can it really be

But two full moons have fled,

Since I limped from a scarred and riven field

Where lay the newly dead,

Bathed in the light of a splendid fight,

And blotched with their blood's own red.

A world of crimson slaughter

Where the grim locked legions sway —

And the mad machine guns whistle

Their endless roundelay —

And the sinister sound of the thundering pound

Of the great guns night and day.

Night and day, night and day,

With scarce a pause between,

As out of the empty dark a voice

From the farthest hills unseen,

Comes whirling, swirling, shrieking down

Where the helpless front lines lean.

The air is soft as a morn in June —

The filmy shadows sway;

And only the joyous music

Of the prattle of children at play,

And the gentle rustle of whispering leaves

That tell of the closing day.