The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,But not of war it sings to-day.The road is rhythmic with the feetOf men-at-arms who come to pray. Trees and Other Poems (1914)
In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet,There is a new-made grave today,Built by never a spade nor pick,Yet covered with earth ten meteres thick.There lie many fighting men.Dead in their youthful primeNever to laugh nor love againNor taste the Summertime. Rouge Bouquet (1918)