AN EPITAPH [TRANSLATION]

Here such an one lies dead for France. His trade To push a barrow stocked with thread, cheese, salt From town to town, under the azure vault, Through endless corridors of rustling shade. True to the sacred law of toil, he made His humble living as the Book commands, Till suddenly there burst upon his lands The thunder of the German cannonade. Poor hero! In the flash that smote him dead He saw his wife and children all in black Weeping about the cart that earned their bread— The cart that, by his passionate impulse sped On immortality’s celestial track, Shone brighter than the Wain above his head. Francis Jammes