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.
To-night across the empty slopes
The shells will scream once more,
And flares go up and bullets fly
The way they did before;
But for a little space of peace
We watch them come and go.
The children that were you and I
At play among the snow.
Bois d'Authuille, 1915