A RIDE IN FRANCE “O. C. PLATOON”

TROTTING the roan horse Over the meadows, Purple of thistles, Purple of clover; Over the clay-brown path, All through the grass-lands, Glory of meadow flowers, Over! Come over! . . . . . . . . . . On to the highway winding o’er the hill, White willow-bordered, grassy-banked; On through a village ruined and broken. Grass grows in the rubble-heaps, Poppies fill the courtyards, Swallows build in broken walls, And everything is still. . . . . . . . . . . While at the corner—walk, O horse of mine, A Christ hangs from a crucifix beside a broken shrine. . . . . . . . . . . On to the path at the side of the white road, Cantering, galloping, breasting the rise; Any road, every road, each is the right road, Facing the east, the sun in my eyes. . . . . . . . . . . Trotting the roan horse Over the meadows, Purple of thistles, Purple of clover; Over the clay-brown path, Back through the grass-lands, All through the meadow flowers; Over! Come over!