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Trees
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. ...

After-days
When the last gun has long withheld Its thunder, and i...

Four Soldiers
THE BOCHE The boche was chiefly what his masters made him....

The Soldiers Who Go To Sea
If the army or the navy ever gaze on Heaven's scenes, Th...

Blocking The Channel
Bruges is an important city of Belgium made familiar to Ameri...

The Really Invincible Armada
The northern coast of Scotland is about as far north as the s...

Pershing At The Tomb Of Lafayette
They knew they were fighting our war. As the months gr...

A Boy Of Perugia
In the year 1500, Raphael was a boy of eighteen in Perugia wo...

Nations Born And Reborn
In America, and in many other countries, people have listened...

The Little Old Road
There's a breath of May in the breeze On the little ol...

Where The Tide Turned
It is the general impression that the tide of victory set in ...

The Turning Of The Tide
A division of marines and other American troops were rushed t...

Waiting For The Flash
Not at once can the mind grasp the full significance of the w...

America Comes In
We are coming from the ranch, from the city and the mine, ...

The Searchlights
Political morality differs from individual morality, because ...

I Knew You Would Come
We are all very proud that America was permitted to have a sh...

The Call To Arms In Our Street
There's a woman sobs her heart out, With her head agains...

Duty
So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man...

Where The Four Winds Meet
There are songs of the north and songs of the south, A...

The Tommy
John Masefield, the English writer, says, St. George did not ...



The Little Old Road






There's a breath of May in the breeze
On the little old road;
May in hedges and trees,
May, the red and the white,
May to left and to right,
Of the little old road.

There's a ribbon of grass either side
Of the little old road;
It's a strip just so wide,
A strip nobody owns,
Where a man's weary bones
When he feels getting old
May lie crushing the gold
Of the silverweed flower
For a long lazy hour
By the little old road.

There's no need to guide the old mare
On the little old road.
She knows that just there
Is the big gravel pit
(How we played in it
As mites of boys
In our corduroys!)
And that here is the pond
With the poplars beyond,
And more May--always May,
Away and away
Down the little old road.

There's a lot to make a man glad
On the little old road
(It's the home-going road),
And a lot to make him sad.
Ah! he'd like to forget,
But he can't, not just yet,
With chaps still out there. . . .
She's stopping, the steady old mare.
Is it here the road bends?
So the long journey ends
At the end of the old road,
The little old road.

There's some one, you say, at the gate
Of the little old house by the road?
Is it Mother? Or Kate?
And they're not going to mind
That, since Wypers, [1] I'm blind,
And the road is a long dark road?

GERTRUDE VAUGHAN.


[1] The Battle of Ypres.





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