II
Here, where in happier times the huntsman’s hornEchoing from far made sweet midsummer eves,Now serried cannon thunder night and morn,Tearing with iron the greenwood’s tender leaves.Yet has sweet Spring no particle withdrawnOf her old bounty; still the song-birds hail,Even through our fusillade, delightful Dawn;Even in our wire bloom lilies of the vale.You who love flowers, take these; their fragile bellsHave trembled with the shock of volleyed shells,And in black nights when stealthy foes advanceThey have been lit by the pale rockets’ glowThat o’er scarred fields and ancient towns laid lowTrace in white fire the brave frontiers of France.
May 22, 1916.