THE summer meads are fair with daisy-snow, White as the dove's wing, flawless as the foam On the brown beaches where the breakers comb When the long Trades their morning bugles blow; And over all there is a golden glow, For the sun sits ascendant in the dome; And smoke-wreaths rise from many a cottage home Where there is peace, and joy's full overflow. This is our heritage, but what of those Who crouch where Yser's sad, ensanguined tide Winds with its sluggish crescents, toward the sea; Where Termonde bells are silent, and the wide And stricken leagues of Flemish land disclose The ruthless wrong, the piteous agony! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WISE WOMAN by LOUIS UNTERMEYER ANOTHER SONG WITHOUT WORDS by PAUL VERLAINE THE BAY FIGHT by HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE: 2 by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 47 by ALFRED TENNYSON |