Cross Roads by Margaret E. Sangster (read the beginning after the end novel .txt) 📕

back,
Through miles of mud that was streaked with blood,
when my closing eyes turned back -
I have cried aloud to a heedless crowd of a God that
they could not know,
And have knelt at night when the way was bright
with a rocket's sullen glow.

I am going home through the whirling foam - home
to her arms stretched wide -
I am going back to the beaten track and the sheltered
fireside,
With gasping breath I have sneered at death, and
have mocked at a shell's swift shirr,
And safe again, through the years of pain, I am
going back - to HER!


I am coming back with a singing soul through the
surge of the splendid sea,
Coming back - BUT MY SINGING SOUL WILL NEVER BE
QUITE FREE -
For I have killed, and my heart has thrilled to the
call of the battle hum. . . .
I am coming back to the used-to-be - But, God, do I
want to come?


TIM - MY BUNKIE

I met Tim th' other day
On Broadway;
Hadn't seem him since he fell,
Covered like with streaks of blood,
In th' Argonne's battle hell.

Tim an' me was bunkies; we
Marched together
Through th' water an' th' slime -
SUNNY FRANCE, HEY? We seen weather
That we hadn't dreamed COULD be
Anywhere or any time.
We had fought - well, hand to hand,
Over miles o' broken land,
Through th' Vesle, an' by th' Aisne,
When th' shrapnel fell like rain -
Tim an' me was bunkies - see?

Smilin' sort o' cuss was Tim;
Never seen th' beat o' him!
He could whistle when a pack
Was like lead upon his back;
He could smile with blistered feet;
Never swore at monkey meat,
Or at cooties, or th' drill;
Always laughin' - never still -
That was Tim!

Say, th' fellers loved that boy!
Chaplain said that he "was joy
All incarnate - " Sounds all right,
But th' men said he was WHITE,
That meant most to us, I'd say!
Why, we never seen th' day
When he wouldn't help a guy.
If he had a franc he'd buy
Chocolate or chow for us,
Gen'rus little smilin' cuss -
That was Tim!

When THEY got him, I can see
Even now, th' way he slipped
To th' ground beside o' me.
Red blood dripped
From his tunic an' his chin,
But he choked out, "Fellers, win!
"Me, I don't much matter, GRIN!"

Sure we had ter leave him lay;
War is always that-a-way;
An' we thought o'course he'd die.
Maybe that's the reason why
We could fight th' way we did;
Why we found th' guns THEY hid;
Why we broke their line in two,
Whistlin' a tune HE knew
All th' time we pushed 'em back,
Crowdin' on 'em whack fer whack!

I seen Tim th' other day
On Broadway;
He had lef' one arm in France,
But his eyes was all a-dance
When he seen me face t' face.
"Say," he shouts, "ain't this SOME place?
Ain't it great th' war is through?
Glad I seen it, though; ain't you?"

Smilin' sort o' little cuss,
Meetin' me without a fuss -
Tim, my bunkie, livin'! . . . Tim!
That's him!


A PRAYER FOR OUR BOYS RETURNING

God, bring them back just as they went away;
A little wiser, maybe, but unchanged
In all the vital things - let them today
Take up the lives that war has disarranged.
Let them renew the youth they laid aside
To fight their battles in the world of men,
God, bring to life their little dreams that died,
And build their altars new again, and then -

Give them the vivid youth that they have sought for
Through bloody mists on bloody fields of strife;
Show them the gallant truth that they have fought
for;
Show them, anew, the better things of life.
God of the hosts, blot out the months of pain -
And let them have their boyhood back again.
AMEN.


PARIS

I. AFTER PEACE

The city thrills once more to joyous singing;
Glad laughter sounds again upon the street,
And music throbs again, until young feet
Trip merrily upon their way; the ringing
Of hour chimes are gallant voices, flinging
Their challenges through each crowded space, to
greet
Old friends who linger where they used to meet
With other friends long gone. . . . The summer,
bringing

The light of peace, has seemed to fill the city,
With happiness that echoes far and wide
In sounds of joy; there seems no room for sorrow -
Yet, like a minor chord submersed in pity,
There steals above the music of tomorrow,
The weary footsteps of the ones who died.


II. THE RUE DE LA PAIX - (A STREET OF JEWELS)

The windows glow with many jewels, with rubies
fire-entangled,
And glowing bits of emerald, and diamonds like
the dew -
But, Paris, can you quite forget the bodies lying
mangled
Beneath the snow on Flanders fields - your lost
who call to you?).

The windows of each little shop are gay with gem-
like laughter,
With rings to fit milady's hand, and drops to deck
her ear;
(But, Paris, can you quite forget Verdun, and Ypres,
and - after?
And, far beneath the sounds of mirth, one
wonders what you hear.)

The windows glow with countless jewels, the shop-
girls stop to wonder,
The little shopgirls who are still, so many, dressed
in black -
(But, oh, the saddened hearts of them no doubt are
lying under
Some sandy stretch along the Marne, where grim
defeat turned back!)

The windows gleam enticingly, and eyes light up to
see them,
For Paris thrills to loveliness, as Paris always
thrilled -
(Oh, God of beauty, touch the lives that war has
crushed, and free them
From broken dreams, an empty faith, and hopes
forever stilled!)


III. THE FLOWER WAGONS

Violets and mignonette, crowded close together,
Crowded close together on the corner of each street,
Through the chilling dampness of the misty weather,
Violets and mignonette - ah, so close together -
Making all the Paris day colorful and sweet!

Roses faintly touched with pink; see, a soldier
lingers
Close beside the flower-stand, dreaming of the day
When she broke a single bud with her slender fingers,
Pressed it to her wistful mouth - see, a soldier lingers
Dreaming of a summertime very far away.

Lilacs white and pure and new, fragrant as the
morning -
One pale widow, passing by, pauses for a space,
Thinking of the lilac tree that once grew, adorning
All a little cottage home, in life's fragrant morning;
Of a lilac tree that grew in a garden place.

Pansies for a thought of love, lilies for love's sorrow,
Bay leaves green as hopes that live, berries red
and brown;
Flowers vivid for a day, gone upon the morrow,
Flowers that are sweet as faith, that are sad as
sorrow -
Flowers for the weary souls of a weary town.

Violets and mignonette, crowded close together,
Crowded close together on the corner of each
street;
Singing of the summertime, through the misty
weather,
Violets and mignonette - ah, so close together -
Making all the Paris day colorful and sweet!


IV. ACROSS THE YEARS

(Marie Antoinette walked down the steps of a certain
Chapel on her way to the guillotine.)

They say a queen once walked along the marble steps
with grace,
To meet grim death by guillotine - a smile was on
her face,
A smile of scorn that lifted her above the howling
crowd,
A smile that mocked at pallid fear - a smile serene
and proud.

Yes, it was Marie Antoinette - she walked with
steady tread,
She sauntered down the marble steps with proudly
lifted head;
And there were those among the crowd who watched
with indrawn breath,
To see a queen walk out with smiles to keep a tryst
with death!

I stood beside those marble steps just yesterday, and
saw,
A bride upon a soldier's arm - a poilu brave who
wore
A Croix de Guerre upon his breast - and oh, they
smiled above
The busy throng that hurried by, unconscious of their
love.

And though, across the mist of years, I glimpsed a
fair queen's face,
A face that smiled, but scornfully, above her land's
disgrace -
I will remember, on those steps, the little new-made
wife,
Who came, her eyes all filled with trust, to keep
her tryst with life.


V. SUNLIGHT

The sun shines over Paris fitfully,
As if it really were afraid to shine;
And clouds of gray mist curl and twist and twine
Across the sky. As far as one can see
The streets are wet with rain, and suddenly
New rain falls in a straight, relentless line