Erase such thoughts from out the o’er-wrought brain,
      Think rather of this freshness, and the sight
    Of nature in her harvest dress, refrain
      From plunging into the eternal night. 
      Such contrasts seem the only choice by right
    Of those who battle for the joy of life. 
      Out on this troubled spot where Armies fight,
    And peasants labour just behind such strife
    Shorthandedly, unhelped, save by a child or wife.

    So come with me down hedgerows, down the glades,
      And thro’ the cosy glens, till far away
    We come unto a hill-crest—­lights and shades,
      Bright coloured landscapes far below us lay,
      Blue mists and fields of yellow corn and hay,
    In rows like soldiers, now the tired eyes see,
      And poplars guard the distant dim roadway,
    Whilst near the wind sighs thro’ the acorn-tree,
    Till one feels hushed, serene, contented, almost free.

    And here, tucked back behind a leafy lane,
      Low in a pocket of some sheltered ground,
    An unpretentious farm, so snug and plain,
      An invitation in itself; when found,
      Only a whining howl like dingoes’ sound,
    Reminds one that there is a war near by. 
      The tools of peace see littered here around,
    Weapons by which men learn to live, not die: 
    A plough, a drill, and there a binder standing nigh.

    ‘Bon jour, m’sieurs,’ a little hunchback cries;
      A wizened, twisted human form divine;
    She flashed a look of welcome from her eyes,
      From which the soul of ages seem to shine.
      ‘Entrez,’ she welcomed, and her face looked fine,
    As proudly bustling o’er her clean stone floor
      She bade us linger, eat, and drink her wine. 
    Refreshed with food and drink, we loiter more
    Within such cool retreat, delaying ‘Au revoir.’

    And soon the human tragedy in course
      Of progress thro’ that little home becomes
    Clear to the senses, and to us much worse
      Compared with our Australia’s peaceful homes. 
      For, oh, the pity, as one’s vision roams
    From there to here, and back on wings again;
      A rush of feeling and emotion comes,
    Whilst hearing this contorted piece of pain,
    The stirring times of all their troubled lives explain.

    For she to whom Fate seemed at first unkind,
      Now lives an angel in a higher sphere. 
    This pained and twisted cripple seemed to find
      Pleasure in living for her kinsfolk dear. 
      Hard work an honour, in her duty clear
    To wives of brothers in the fighting line;
      Women and children gather round her here;
    For round their hearts her nature did entwine,
    Her beaming face proclaimed ‘See, Anglaise, they are mine.’