George Herbert Clarke, ed. (1873–1953). A Treasury of War Poetry. 1917.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton
The Wife of Flanders
L
Where I had seven sons until to-day,
A little hill of hay your spur has scattered.…
This is not Paris. You have lost the way.
Surprised at the surprise that was your plan,
Who, shaking and breaking barriers not a little,
Find never more the death-door of Sedan—
Paying you a penny for each son you slay?
Man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment
For what you have lost. And how shall I repay?
From a kind farm that never had a name?
What is the price of that dead man they brought me?
For other dead men do not look the same.
Whereon you shattered what you shall not know?
How should I pay you, miserable people?
How should I pay you everything you owe?
Though I forgave, would any man forget?
While all the great green land has trampled on her
The treason and terror of the night we met.
An old wife bargains for a bean that’s hers.
You have no word to break: no heart to harden.
Ride on and prosper. You have lost your spurs.