Then belches Hell anew. And all day long
The afflicted place drifts heavenward in dust;
All day the shells shriek out their devils' song;
All day men cling close to the earth's charred crust;
Till, in the dusk, the Huns come on again,
And, like some sluice, the watchers up the hill
Let loose the guns and flood the soil with slain,
And they go back, but scourge the village still.
I see it all. I see the same brave souls
To-night, to-morrow, though the half be gone,
Deafened and dazed, and hunted from their holes,
Helpless and hunger-sick, but holding on.
I shall be happy all the long day here,
But not till night shall they go up the steep,
And, nervous now because the end is near,
Totter at last to quietness and to sleep.
And men who find it easier to forget,
In England here, among the daffodils,
That there in France are fields unflowered yet,
And murderous May-days on the unlovely hills--
Let them go walking where the land is fair
And watch the breaking of a morn in May,
And think, "It may be Zero over there,
But here is Peace"--and kneel awhile, and pray.
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