La Voie Sacree

John Allan Wyeth

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These houses died too long ago to care

who comes and echoes in their empty shells.

Our broken rooms stay blank and vacant still

although we laughed and talked an hour or two.

Rats squeak and scrabble brusquely everywhere.

The night is almost blind . . . Something dispels

my stupor, wakes me with a squeamish thrill

to find my raincoat pocket eaten through . . .

How can I sleep with Verdun over there!

Once out of doors, what is it breaks and wells

to tears,--just to be marching along the grey

of the road, with Verdun back of any hill,

Verdun, in touch and sentient--there to view

my lonely crisis on her sacred way.

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