The Refugees W. G. S.
in the London Spectator
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.