Erase such thoughts from out
the o’er-wrought brain,
Think rather of
this freshness, and the sight
Of nature in her harvest dress,
refrain
From plunging
into the eternal night.
Such contrasts
seem the only choice by right
Of those who battle for the
joy of life.
Out on this troubled
spot where Armies fight,
And peasants labour just behind
such strife
Shorthandedly, unhelped, save
by a child or wife.
So come with me down hedgerows,
down the glades,
And thro’
the cosy glens, till far away
We come unto a hill-crest—lights
and shades,
Bright coloured
landscapes far below us lay,
Blue mists and
fields of yellow corn and hay,
In rows like soldiers, now
the tired eyes see,
And poplars guard
the distant dim roadway,
Whilst near the wind sighs
thro’ the acorn-tree,
Till one feels hushed, serene,
contented, almost free.
And here, tucked back behind
a leafy lane,
Low in a pocket
of some sheltered ground,
An unpretentious farm, so
snug and plain,
An invitation
in itself; when found,
Only a whining
howl like dingoes’ sound,
Reminds one that there is
a war near by.
The tools of peace
see littered here around,
Weapons by which men learn
to live, not die:
A plough, a drill, and there
a binder standing nigh.
‘Bon jour, m’sieurs,’
a little hunchback cries;
A wizened, twisted
human form divine;
She flashed a look of welcome
from her eyes,
From which the
soul of ages seem to shine.
‘Entrez,’
she welcomed, and her face looked fine,
As proudly bustling o’er
her clean stone floor
She bade us linger,
eat, and drink her wine.
Refreshed with food and drink,
we loiter more
Within such cool retreat,
delaying ‘Au revoir.’
And soon the human tragedy
in course
Of progress thro’
that little home becomes
Clear to the senses, and to
us much worse
Compared with
our Australia’s peaceful homes.
For, oh, the pity,
as one’s vision roams
From there to here, and back
on wings again;
A rush of feeling
and emotion comes,
Whilst hearing this contorted
piece of pain,
The stirring times of all
their troubled lives explain.
For she to whom Fate seemed
at first unkind,
Now lives an angel
in a higher sphere.
This pained and twisted cripple
seemed to find
Pleasure in living
for her kinsfolk dear.
Hard work an honour,
in her duty clear
To wives of brothers in the
fighting line;
Women and children
gather round her here;
For round their hearts her
nature did entwine,
Her beaming face proclaimed
‘See, Anglaise, they are mine.’