4. — Behind the Lines: Night, France -
At the cross-roads I halt
And stand stock-still. . . .
The linked and flickering constellations climb
Slowly the spread black heaven's immensity.
The wind wanders like a thought at fault.
Within the close-shuttered cottage nigh
I hear — while its fearful, ag'd master sleeps like the dead —
A slow clock chime
With solemn thrill
The most sombre hour of time,
And see stand in the cottage's garden chill
The two white crosses, one at each grave's head. . . .
O France, France, France! I loved you, love you still;
But, Oh! why took you not my life instead?
And stand stock-still. . . .
The linked and flickering constellations climb
Slowly the spread black heaven's immensity.
The wind wanders like a thought at fault.
Within the close-shuttered cottage nigh
I hear — while its fearful, ag'd master sleeps like the dead —
A slow clock chime
With solemn thrill
The most sombre hour of time,
And see stand in the cottage's garden chill
The two white crosses, one at each grave's head. . . .
O France, France, France! I loved you, love you still;
But, Oh! why took you not my life instead?
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