SPRING—1919
Whatis this France of today, you ask?It’s a madhouse of homesick men,Chafing, each one, to renew his taskIn the land of his dreams again.France! It is khaki and France is blueAnd France is a green-capped Hun—Badge of the bondage he’s destined toTill the days of his debt are done.France is an emerald rolling plain,Ribboned with winding ways,Quivering white through the fields of grainAnd lost in the purple haze.France is a village of dung and ducksWhere the muck-brown urchins play,Rumbling all day with the motor-trucksAs they roll down the old highway.France is a hill with an ancient church—Gray towers through the poplar trees,Gargoyles a-grin from each crumbling perchAt the saints on their balconies.France is a window of mellow lightWhere the day’s last gold has died—France is a woman with brow of whiteAt the feet of the Crucified.France is a cap and an empty coatAnd a space where the embers glow—France is a grave by a shell-torn moatWhere the weeds and the poppies grow.France is the ashes of yesterdayAnd France is tomorrow’s dawn—France is a bough with a blossom sprayOn the ruins of Montfaucon.Verdun, France,April, 1919.
Whatis this France of today, you ask?It’s a madhouse of homesick men,Chafing, each one, to renew his taskIn the land of his dreams again.France! It is khaki and France is blueAnd France is a green-capped Hun—Badge of the bondage he’s destined toTill the days of his debt are done.France is an emerald rolling plain,Ribboned with winding ways,Quivering white through the fields of grainAnd lost in the purple haze.France is a village of dung and ducksWhere the muck-brown urchins play,Rumbling all day with the motor-trucksAs they roll down the old highway.France is a hill with an ancient church—Gray towers through the poplar trees,Gargoyles a-grin from each crumbling perchAt the saints on their balconies.France is a window of mellow lightWhere the day’s last gold has died—France is a woman with brow of whiteAt the feet of the Crucified.France is a cap and an empty coatAnd a space where the embers glow—France is a grave by a shell-torn moatWhere the weeds and the poppies grow.France is the ashes of yesterdayAnd France is tomorrow’s dawn—France is a bough with a blossom sprayOn the ruins of Montfaucon.Verdun, France,April, 1919.
Whatis this France of today, you ask?It’s a madhouse of homesick men,Chafing, each one, to renew his taskIn the land of his dreams again.France! It is khaki and France is blueAnd France is a green-capped Hun—Badge of the bondage he’s destined toTill the days of his debt are done.
France is an emerald rolling plain,Ribboned with winding ways,Quivering white through the fields of grainAnd lost in the purple haze.France is a village of dung and ducksWhere the muck-brown urchins play,Rumbling all day with the motor-trucksAs they roll down the old highway.
France is a hill with an ancient church—Gray towers through the poplar trees,Gargoyles a-grin from each crumbling perchAt the saints on their balconies.France is a window of mellow lightWhere the day’s last gold has died—France is a woman with brow of whiteAt the feet of the Crucified.
France is a cap and an empty coatAnd a space where the embers glow—France is a grave by a shell-torn moatWhere the weeds and the poppies grow.France is the ashes of yesterdayAnd France is tomorrow’s dawn—France is a bough with a blossom sprayOn the ruins of Montfaucon.
Verdun, France,April, 1919.