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Lit other hills with fairer ways than ours；
Some clustered graves where half our memories lie；
And one grim Shadow creeping ever nigh：
And this was Life。
Wherein we did another's burden seek；
The tired feet we helped upon the road；
The hand we gave the weary and the weak；
The miles we lightened one another's load；
When； faint to falling； onward yet we strode：
This too was Life。
Till； at the upland； as we turned to go
Amid fair meadows； dusky in the night；
The mists fell back upon the road below；
Broke on our tired eyes the western light；
The very graves were for a moment bright：
And this was Death。
The Shadow of the Cross
At the drowsy dusk when the shadows creep
From the golden west； where the sunbeams sleep；
An angel mused： 〃Is there good or ill
In the mad world's heart； since on Calvary's hill
'Round the cross a mid…day twilight fell
That darkened earth and o'ershadowed hell？〃
Through the streets of a city the angel sped；
Like an open scroll men's hearts he read。
In a monarch's ear his courtiers lied
And humble faces hid hearts of pride。
Men's hate waxed hot； and their hearts grew cold；
As they haggled and fought for the lust of gold。
Despairing； he cried； 〃After all these years
Is there naught but hatred and strife and tears？〃
He found two waifs in an attic bare；
A single crust was their meagre fare
One strove to quiet the other's cries；
And the love…light dawned in her famished eyes
As she kissed the child with a motherly air：
〃I don't need mine； you can have my share。〃
Then the angel knew that the earthly cross
And the sorrow and shame were not wholly loss。
At dawn； when hushed was earth's busy hum
And men looked not for their Christ to come；
From the attic poor to the palace grand；
The King and the beggar went hand in hand。
The Night Cometh
Cometh the night。 The wind falls low；
The trees swing slowly to and fro：
Around the church the headstones grey
Cluster； like children strayed away
But found again； and folded so。
No chiding look doth she bestow：
If she is glad； they cannot know；
If ill or well they spend their day；
Cometh the night。
Singing or sad； intent they go；
They do not see the shadows grow；
〃There yet is time；〃 they lightly say；
〃Before our work aside we lay〃；
Their task is but half…done； and lo！
Cometh the night。
In Due Season
If night should come and find me at my toil；
When all Life's day I had； tho' faintly； wrought；
And shallow furrows； cleft in stony soil
Were all my labour： Shall I count it naught
If only one poor gleaner； weak of hand；
Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown？
〃Nay； for of thee the Master doth demand
Thy work： the harvest rests with Him alone。〃
John McCrae
An Essay in Character by Sir Andrew Macphail
I
In Flanders Fields
〃In Flanders Fields〃； the piece of verse from which this little book
takes its title； first appeared in ‘Punch' in the issue of December 8th；
1915。 At the time I was living in Flanders at a convent in front of Locre；
in shelter of Kemmel Hill； which lies seven miles south and slightly west
of Ypres。 The piece bore no signature； but it was unmistakably
from the hand of John McCrae。
From this convent of women which was the headquarters of the 6th Canadian
Field Ambulance； I wrote to John McCrae； who was then at Boulogne；
accusing him of the authorship； and furnished him with evidence。
From memory since at the front one carries one book only
I quoted to him another piece of his own verse； entitled 〃The Night Cometh〃：
〃Cometh the night。 The wind falls low；
The trees swing slowly to and fro；
Around the church the headstones grey
Cluster； like children stray'd away；
But found again； and folded so。〃
It will be observed at once by reference to the text that in form
the two poems are identical。 They contain the same number of lines and feet
as surely as all sonnets do。 Each travels upon two rhymes
with the members of a broken couplet in widely separated refrain。
To the casual reader this much is obvious； but there are many subtleties
in the verse which made the authorship inevitable。 It was a form upon which
he had worked for years； and made his own。 When the moment arrived
the medium was ready。 No other medium could have so well conveyed
the thought。
This familiarity with his verse was not a matter of accident。
For many years I was editor of the ‘University Magazine'；
and those who are curious about such things may discover
that one half of the poems contained in this little book
were first published upon its pages。 This magazine had its origin
in McGill University； Montreal； in the year 1902。 Four years later
its borders were enlarged to the wider term； and it strove to express
an educated opinion upon questions immediately concerning Canada；
and to treat freely in a literary way all matters which have to do
with politics； industry； philosophy； science； and art。
To this magazine during those years John McCrae contributed all his verse。
It was therefore not unseemly that I should have written to him；
when 〃In Flanders Fields〃 appeared in ‘Punch'。 Amongst his papers
I find my poor letter； and many others of which something more might be made
if one were concerned merely with the literary side of his life
rather than with his life itself。 Two references will be enough。
Early in 1905 he offered 〃The Pilgrims〃 for publication。
I notified him of the place assigned to it in the magazine；
and added a few words of appreciation； and after all these years
it has come back to me。
The letter is dated February 9th； 1905； and reads： 〃I place the poem
next to my own buffoonery。 It is the real stuff of poetry。
How did you make it？ What have you to do with medicine？
I was charmed with it： the thought high； the image perfect；
the expression complete； not too reticent； not too full。
Videntes autem stellam gavisi sunt gaudio magno valde。
In our own tongue； ‘slainte filidh'。〃 To his mother he wrote；
〃the Latin is translatable as； ‘seeing the star they rejoiced
with exceeding gladness'。〃 For the benefit of those whose education
has proceeded no further than the Latin； it may be explained
that the two last words mean； 〃Hail to the poet〃。
To the inexperienced there is something portentous about an appearance
in print and something mysterious about the business of an editor。
A legend has already grown up around the publication of 〃In Flanders Fields〃
in ‘Punch'。 The truth is； 〃that the poem was offered in the usual way
and accepted； that is all。〃 The usual way of offering a piece to an editor
is to put it in an envelope with a postage stamp outside to carry it there；
and a stamp inside to carry it back。 Nothing else helps。
An editor is merely a man who knows his right hand from his left；
good from evil； having the honesty of a kitchen cook
who will not spoil his confection by favour for a friend。
Fear of a foe is not a temptation； since editors are too humble and harmless
to have any。 There are of course certa