When all this age shall pass away, and silenced are the guns,
When sweethearts join their loves again, and mothers kiss their sons,
When brave unto the brave return, and all they did is told,
How pitiful my gift shall seem, when all I gave is gold.

When we are asked what did you then, when all the world was red,
And some shall say, “I fell in France,” and some, “I mourned my dead;”
With all the brave assembled there in glory long to live,
How trivial our lives shall seem who had but gold to give.

         The Undaunted

He tried to travel No Man’s Land, that’s guarded well with guns,
He tried to race the road of death, where never a coward runs. 
Now he’s asking of his doctor, and he’s panting hard for breath,
How soon he will be ready for another bout with death.

You’d think if you had wakened in a shell hole’s slime and mud
That was partly dirty water, but was mostly human blood,
And you had to lie and suffer till the bullets ceased to hum
And the night time dropped its cover, so the stretcher boys could come—­

    You’d think if you had suffered from a fever and its thirst,
    And could hear the “rapids” spitting and the high explosives burst,
    And had lived to tell that story—­you could face our fellow men
    In the little peaceful village, though you never fought again.

    You’d think that once you’d fallen in the shrapnel’s deadly rain,
    Once you’d shed your blood for honor, you had borne your share of pain;
    Once you’d traveled No Man’s country, you’d be satisfied to quit
    And be invalided homeward, and could say you’d done your bit.

But he’s lying, patched and bandaged, very white and very weak,
And he’s trying to be cheerful, though it’s agony to speak;
He is pleading with the doctor, though he’s panting hard for breath,
To return him to the trenches for another bout with death.

         The Discovery of a Soul

The proof of a man is the danger test,
That shows him up at his worst or best.

He didn’t seem to care for work, he wasn’t much at school. 
His speech was slow and commonplace—­you wouldn’t call him fool. 
And yet until the war broke out you’d calmly pass him by,
For nothing in his make-up or his way would catch your eye. 
He seemed indifferent to the world, the kind that doesn’t care—­
That’s satisfied with just enough to eat and drink and wear;
That doesn’t laugh when others do or cry when others weep,
But seems to walk the wakeful world half dormant and asleep;
Then came the war, and soldiers marched and drums began to roll,
And suddenly we realized his body held a soul.