Chemin Des Dames

ALLEN TUCKER

TWO blackened, swollen things that once were men,

Dressed in the clothing of the Prussian Guard,

With dreadful heads awry under their iron pots,

And hands still clutching at the empty air,

Lie rotting in a hole—

A muddy hole made by a giant shell.

While, down the road a little way,

Passes a nun.

Her face illumined, by the inward smile

That comes of perfect peace.

Carrying in her two hands some dull pink flowers,

A pot of mauve chrysanthemums.

The paper clean in which the pot is wrapped,

Making upon her flat black dress

A triangle of palest white.

Shining through the growing dusk.