|
| Where the cannon roared and machine guns sang their humns of hate—Where humanity went mad, mobilized for choas and catastrophy—Where millions of boys, and who had hardly tasted life, were maimed, blinded, shell shocked, or blown into eternity—all is now quiet. The farmer on the edge of the Argonne sows his wheat on the trenches, now filled, and the shepherd tends his flock on the old blood-soaked fields where America's bravest fell. |