Lord, in this hour of tumult, Lord, in this night of fears, Keep open, oh, keep open My eyes, my ears.

Not blindly, not in hatred, Lord, let me do my part.

Keep open, oh, keep open My mind, my heart!

Prayer of a Soldier in France. [Joyce Kilmer]

My shoulders ache beneath my pack (Lie easier, Cross, upon His back).

I march with feet that burn and smart (Tread, Holy Feet, upon my heart).

Men shout at me who may not speak (They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek).

I may not lift a hand to clear My eyes of salty drops that sear.

(Then shall my fickle soul forget Thy Agony of b.l.o.o.d.y Sweat?)

My rifle hand is stiff and numb (From Thy pierced palm red rivers come).

Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me Than all the hosts of land and sea.

So let me render back again This millionth of Thy gift. Amen.

The White Comrade. [Robert Haven Schauffler]

Under our curtain of fire, Over the clotted clods, We charged, to be withered, to reel And despairingly wheel When the bugles bade us retire From the terrible odds.

As we ebbed with the battle-tide, Fingers of red-hot steel Suddenly closed on my side.

I fell, and began to pray.

I crawled on my hands and lay Where a shallow crater yawned wide; Then I swooned. . . .

When I woke, it was yet day.

Fierce was the pain of my wound, But I saw it was death to stir, For fifty paces away Their trenches were.

In torture I prayed for the dark And the stealthy step of my friend Who, stanch to the very end, Would creep to the danger zone And offer his life as a mark To save my own.

Night fell. I heard his tread, Not stealthy, but firm and serene, As if my comrade's head Were lifted far from that scene Of pa.s.sion and pain and dread; As if my comrade's heart In carnage took no part; As if my comrade's feet Were set on some radiant street Such as no darkness might haunt; As if my comrade's eyes, No deluge of flame could surprise, No death and destruction daunt, No red-beaked bird dismay, Nor sight of decay.

Then in the bursting sh.e.l.ls' dim light I saw he was clad in white.

For a moment I thought that I saw the smock Of a shepherd in search of his flock.

Alert were the enemy, too, And their bullets flew Straight at a mark no bullet could fail; For the seeker was tall and his robe was bright; But he did not flee nor quail.

Instead, with unhurrying stride He came, And gathering my tall frame, Like a child, in his arms . . .

I slept, And awoke From a blissful dream In a cave by a stream.

My silent comrade had bound my side.

No pain now was mine, but a wish that I spoke, -- A mastering wish to serve this man Who had ventured through h.e.l.l my doom to revoke, As only the truest of comrades can.

I begged him to tell me how best I might aid him, And urgently prayed him Never to leave me, whatever betide; When I saw he was hurt -- Shot through the hands that were clasped in prayer!

Then, as the dark drops gathered there And fell in the dirt, The wounds of my friend Seemed to me such as no man might bear.

Those bullet-holes in the patient hands Seemed to transcend All horrors that ever these war-drenched lands Had known or would know till the mad world's end.

Then suddenly I was aware That his feet had been wounded, too; And, dimming the white of his side, A dull stain grew.

"You are hurt, White Comrade!" I cried.

His words I already foreknew: "These are old wounds," said he, "But of late they have troubled me."

Smith, of the Third Oregon, dies. [Mary Carolyn Davies]

Autumn in Oregon is wet as Spring, And green, with little singings in the gra.s.s, And pheasants flying, Gold, green and red, Great, narrow, lovely things, As if an orchid had s.n.a.t.c.hed wings.

There are strange birds like blots against a sky Where a sun is dying.

Beyond the river where the hills are blurred A cloud, like the one word Of the too-silent sky, stirs, and there stand Black trees on either hand.

Autumn in Oregon is wet and new As Spring, And puts a fever like Spring's in the cheek That once has touched her dew -- And it puts longing too In eyes that once have seen Her season-flouting green, And ears that listened to her strange birds speak.

Autumn in Oregon -- I'll never see Those hills again, a blur of blue and rain Across the old Willamette. I'll not stir A pheasant as I walk, and hear it whirr Above my head, an indolent, trusting thing.

When all this silly dream is finished here, The fellows will go home to where there fall Rose-petals over every street, and all The year is like a friendly festival.

But I shall never watch those hedges drip Color, not see the tall spar of a ship In our old harbor. -- They say that I am dying, Perhaps that's why it all comes back again: Autumn in Oregon and pheasants flying --

Song. [Edward J. O'Brien]

She goes all so softly Like a shadow on the hill, A faint wind at twilight That stirs, and is still.

She weaves her thoughts whitely, Like doves in the air, Though a gray mound in Flanders Clouds all that was fair.

Lonely Burial. [Stephen Vincent Benet]

There were not many at that lonely place, Where two scourged hills met in a little plain.