POETRY.

A VOICE IN THE DESERT, A HTINDRED yards from the trenches, Close to the battle front,

There stands a little house Lonely and desolate.

Not a man, not a cat, nets dog, not a sou!, Only a flight of crows along the railway tine, The sound of our boots on the muddy Iced, And, along the Yser, the twinkling fires A low thatched cottage.

With doors and shutters closed, The roof torn by a shell, Standing out of the floods alone.

Not a cry, not a sound, not a life, not a mouse, Only the stillness of the great graveyards, Only the crosses, the crooked wooden crosses, On the wide, lonely plain.

A cottage showing grey Against scold black sky, Blind and deaf in the breeze Of the dying day, And the sound of our footsteps slipping On the atones, as we go by . . .

Suddenly, on the silent air, Warm and clear, pure and sweet As sunshine upon golden moss, Strong and tender as a prayer, Through the roof a girl's voice rang And the cottage sang: "When the sap begins to spring

—Red willow, catkins grey—

When the sap begins to spring The cock will greet the day.

The cow will sound her horn —Gold straw and sunny shed—.

So loud she'll low that morn That she will wake the dead.

Our hammers then will clash

—Strong arms and naked breast—

Saws whirr and forges flash And sparkle without rest.

Each church will ope its door, —Pervyse, Ypres, and Nieuport- And with strong clanging bell Thunder the Germans' knell.

Then will our trowels ring —Dilmede and Ramscapelle- And shouts and laughter swell, And busy pielkaxe swing.

Our boats will glide along —Black tar and seagulls white-- We'll bear the skylark's song Above our rivers bright.

And then our graves will bloom

—Dance tomtits on the sod—

And then our graves will bloom Beneath the sun of God."

Not a breath, not a sound, not a soul, Only the crosses, the crooked wooden crosses "Come, 'tie getting late, "Pis but a peasant girl With her father living there.

They will not go away, Nothing will make them yield.

They will die, they say, Sooner than leave their field."

Not a breath, not a life, not a soul, Only a flight of crows along the railway line, The sound of our hoots on the muddy road, And, along the Yser, the twinkling fires.

Emma CAILIBLERTB.

(Translated by Tita Brand Cammaerts from the French original which appeared in last Sunday's "Observer.") All rights reserved.