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SNOW IN FRANCE
THE tattered grass of No Man's Land
Is white with snow to-day,
And up and down the deadly slopes
The ghosts of childhood play.
The sentries, peering from the line,
See in the tumbled snow
Light forms that were their little selves
A score of years ago.
We look and see the crumpled drifts
Piled in a little glen.
And you are back in Saxony
And children once again.
From joyous hand to laughing face
We watch the snow-balls fly.
The way they used ere we were men
Waiting our turn to die.
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