Soldier that saved the world in saving France,
    Foch, to America’s deep heart how near;
  Betwixt us twain shall never come mischance. 
    Warrior that fought that war might disappear,
    Far and for ever far the unborn year
    That turns the ploughshare back into the spear—­
  But, must it come, then Foch shall lead the dance: 
    Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer.

  WE ARE WITH FRANCE

  We are with France—­not by the ties
    Of treaties made with tongue in cheek,
  The ancient diplomatic lies,
    The paper promises that seek
  To hide the long maturing guile,
  Planning destruction with a smile.

  We are with France by bonds no seal
    Of the stamped wax and tape can make,
  Bonds no surprise of ambushed steel
    With sneering devil’s laughter break;
  Nor need we any plighted speech
  For our deep concord, each with each.

  As ancient comrades tried and true
    No new exchange of vows demand,
  Each knows of old what each will do,
    Nor needs to talk to understand;
  So France with us and we with France—­
  Enough the gesture and the glance.

  In a shared dream our loves began,
    Together fought one fight and won,
  The Dream Republican of Man,
    And now as then our dream is one;
  Still as of old our hearts unite
  To dream and battle for the Right.

  Nor memories alone are ours,
    But purpose for the Future strong,
  Across the seas two signal towers,
    Keeping stern watch against the Wrong;
  Seeking, with hearts of deep accord,
  A better wisdom than the Sword.

  We are with France, in brotherhood
    Not of the spirit’s task alone,
  But kin in laughter of the blood: 
    Where Paris glitters in the sun,
  A second home, like boys, we find,
  And leave our grown-up cares behind.

  SATAN:  1920

  I read there is a man who sits apart,
    A sort of human spider in his den,
  Who meditates upon a fearful art—­
    The swiftest way to slay his fellow men. 
  Behind a mask of glass he dreams his hell: 
    With chemic skill, to pack so fierce a dust
  Within the thunderbolt of one small shell—­
    Sating in vivid thought his shuddering lust—­
  Whole cities in one gasp of flame shall die,
    Swept with an all-obliterating rain
  Of sudden fire and poison from the sky;
    Nothing that breathes be left to breathe again—­
  And only gloating eyes from out the air
    Watching the twisting fires, and ears attent
  For children’s cries and woman’s shrill despair,
    The crash of shrines and towers in ruin rent.