THE REFUGEES W. G. S.

PAST the marching men, where the great road runs, Out of burning Ypres the pale women came: One was a widow (listen to the guns!)— She wheeled a heaped-up barrow. One walked lame And dragged two little children at her side Tired and coughing with the dust. The third Nestled a dead child on her breast and tried To suckle him. They never spoke a word. So they came down along the Ypres road. A soldier stayed his mirth to watch them pass, Turned and in silence helped them with their load, And led them to a field and gave them bread. I saw them hide their faces in the grass And cry, as women might when Christ was dead.