English poem
Iv.--Behind The Lines: Night, France
by Robert Nichols (1893–1944)
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?