August, 1918

(In a French Village.)

I hear the tinkling of the cattle bell, In the broad stillness of the afternoon; High in the cloudless haze the harvest moon Is pallid as the phantom of a shell. A girl is drawing water from a well, I hear the clatter of her wooden shoon; Two mothers to their sleeping babies croon, And the hot village feels the drowsy spell.

Sleep, child, the Angel of Death his wings has spread; His engines scour the land, the sea, the sky; And all the weapons of Hell’s armoury Are ready for the blood that is their bread; And many a thousand men to-night must die, So many that they will not count the Dead.