The changing seasons will bring again
The magic of Spring to our wood and plain:
Though the Spring be so green as never was seen
The crosses will still be black in the green.

The God of battles shall judge the foe
Who trampled our country and laid her low . . .
God! hold our hands on the reckoning day,
Lest all we owe them we should repay.

1915.



POEM: SPRING IN WAR-TIME



Now the sprinkled blackthorn snow
Lies along the lovers' lane
Where last year we used to go -
Where we shall not go again.

In the hedge the buds are new,
By our wood the violets peer -
Just like last year's violets, too,
But they have no scent this year.

Every bird has heart to sing
Of its nest, warmed by its breast;