Over Here Part 9

A Creed

To keep in mind from day to day That I'm a soldier in the fray; That I must serve, from sun to sun, As well as he who bears a gun The flag that flies above us all, And answer well my Country's call.

I must not for one hour forget Unto the Stars and Stripes my debt.

'Twas spotless on' my day of birth, And when at last I quit this earth Old Glory still must spotless be For all who follow after me.

At some post where my work will fit I must with courage do my bit; Some portion of myself I'd give That freedom and the Flag may live.

And in some way I want to feel That I am doing service real.

I must in all I say and do Respect the red, the white and blue', Nor dim with petty deeds of shame The splendor of Old Glory's fame; I must not let my standards drag, For my disgrace would stain the Flag.

The Struggle

Life is a struggle for peace, A longing for rest, A hope for the battles to cease, A dream for the best; And he is not living who stays Contented with things, Unconcerned with the work of the days And all that it brings.

He is dead who sees nothing to change, No wrong to make right; Who travels no new way or strange In search of the light; Who never sets out for a goal That he sees from afar But contents his indifferent soul With things as they are.

Life isn't rest--it is toil; It is building a dream; It is tilling a parcel of soil Or bridging a stream; It's pursuing the light of a star That but dimly we see, And in wresting from things as they are The joy that should be.

As It Looks to the Boy

His comrades have enlisted, but his mother bids him stay, His soul is sick with coward shame, his head hangs low to-day, His eyes no longer sparkle, and his breast is void of pride And I think that she has lost him though she's kept him at her side.

Oh, I'm sorry for the mother, but I'm sorrier for the lad Who must look on life forever as a hopeless dream and sad.

He must fancy men are sneering as they see him walk the street, He will feel his cheeks turn crimson as his eyes another's meet; And the boys and girls that knew him as he was but yesterday, Will not seem to smile upon him, in the old familiar way.

He will never blame his mother, but when he's alone at night, His thoughts will flock to tell him that he isn't doing right.

Oh, I'm sorry for the mother from whose side a boy must go, And the strong desire to keep him that she feels, I think I know, But the boy that she's so fond of has a life to live on earth, And he hungers to be busy with the work that is of worth.

He will sicken and grow timid, he'll be flesh without a heart Until death at last shall claim him, if he doesn't do his part.

Have you kept him, gentle mother? Has he lost his old-time cheer?

Is he silent, sad and sullen? Are his eyes no longer clear?

Is he growing weak and flabby who but yesterday was strong?

Then a secret grief he's nursing and I'll tell you what is wrong.

All his comrades have departed on their country's n.o.blest work, And he hungers to be with them--it is not his wish to shirk.

Fly a Clean Flag

This I heard the Old Flag say As I pa.s.sed it yesterday: "Months ago your friendly hands Fastened me on slender strands And with patriotic love Placed me here to wave above You and yours. I heard you say On that long departed day: 'Flag of all that's true and fine, Wave above this house of mine; Be the first at break of day And the last at night to say To the world this word of cheer: Loyalty abideth here.'

"Here on every wind that's blown, O'er your" portal I have flown; Rain and snow have battered me, Storms at night have tattered me; Dust of street and chimney stack Day by day have stained me black, And I've watched you pa.s.sing there, Wondering how much you care.

Have you noticed that your flag, Is to-day a wind-blown rag?

Has your love so careless grown By the long neglect you've shown That you never raise your eye To the symbol that you fly?"

"Flag, on which no stain has been, 'Tis my sin that you're unclean,"

Then I answered in my shame.

"On my head must lie the blame.

Now with patriotic hands I release you from your strands, And a spotless flag shall fly Here to greet each pa.s.ser-by.

Nevermore shall Flag of mine Be a sad and sorry sign Telling all who look above I neglect the thing I love.

But my Flag of faith shall be Fit for every eye to see."

To a Kindly Critic

If it's wrong to believe in the land that we love And to pray for Our Flag to the good G.o.d above; If it's wrong to believe that Our Country is best; That honor's her standard, and truth is her crest; If placing her first in our prayers and our song Is false to true reason, we're glad to be wrong.

If it's wrong to wish victory day after day For the troops of Our Country now marching away; If it's wrong to believe they are moved by the right And not by the love and the lure of the fight; If to cheer them to battle and bid them be strong Is false to right thinking, then let us be wrong.

If it's wrong to believe in America's dreams Of a freedom on earth that's as real as it seems; If it's error to cherish the hope, through and through, That the Stars in Old Glory's immaculate blue Shall shine through the ages, true beacons to men, We pray that no right phrase shall flow from our pen.

War's Homecoming

We little thought how much they meant--the bleeding hearts of France, And British mothers wearing black to mark some troop's advance, The war was, O, so distant then, the grief so far away, We couldn't see the weeping eyes, nor hear the women pray.

We couldn't sense the weight of woe that rested on that land, But now our boy is called to go--to-day, we understand.

There, some have heard the blackest news that o'er the wires has sped, And some are living day by day beneath the clouds of dread; Some fear the worst; some know the worst, but every heart is chilled, And every soul is sorrow touched and laughter there is stilled.

There, old folks sit alone and grieve and pray for peace to come, And now our little boy has heard the summons of the drum.

Their grief was such a distant thing, we made it fruit for speech.

We never thought in days of old such pain our hearts would reach.

We talked of it, as people do of sorrow far aloof, Nor dreamed such care would ever dwell beneath our happy roof.

But England's woes are ours to-day, we share the sighs of France; Our little boy is on the sea with Death to take his chance.

Next of Kin

I notice when the news comes in Of one who's claimed eternal glory, This simple phrase, "the next of kin,"

Concludes the soldier's final story.

This tells the world what voice will choke, What heart that bit of shrapnel broke, What father or what mother brave Will think of Flanders as a grave.

"The next of kin," the cable cold Wastes not a precious word in telling, Yet cannot you and I behold The sorrow in some humble dwelling, And cannot you and I perceive The brave yet lonely mother grieve And picture, when that news comes in, The anguish of "the next of kin?"