Classic Poem

In France the fields are brown with new turned earth,
The trees stand bare and gaunt before the breeze,
Which blows across the country mad with mirth
With wailings through the silhouetted trees.

The long roads reach across the furrowed ground
And silence holds the land within her spell;
The creaking carts of peasants homeward bound
Jolt towards Vend├┤me's ringing vesper bell.

A Poilu in his coat once splendid blue,
Trudges to his home, returned on leave,
And all seems peace and quiet; O how few
Would think within this land that many grieve.
O France, thy strength lies not in boast or show
But silence is thy grandeur, sure and slow.