Extras

THE CROCUSES in the Square  
 Lend a winsome touch to the May;  
 The clouds are vanished away,  
The weather is bland and fair;  
Now peace seems everywhere.
 Hark to the raucous, sullen cries:  
 “Extra! extra!”—tersely flies  
 The news, and a great hope mounts, or dies.  
 
About the bulletin-boards  
 Dark knots of people surge;
 Strained faces show, then merge  
In the inconspicuous hordes  
That yet are the Nation’s lords.  
 “Extra! extra! Big fight at sea!”  
 Was the luck with us? Is it victory?
 Dear God, they died for you and me!  
 
Meanwhile the crocuses down the street  
With heaven’s own patience are calm and sweet.