<html xmlns:tei="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><body><h1 align="" class="head">THE FRONT: 1915.</h1><p class="epigraph"></p><blockquote>"It is as if hell were let loose."</blockquote><p>--Letter from the Front.</p><div class="stanza"><p class="line">ARE you in hell, my son,</p><p class="line">While I am dreaming on this grassy hill, </p><p class="line">In the white blossoming </p><p class="line">Of England's frail sweet spring ?-</p><p class="line">I, who no pain would shun </p><p class="line">To shield you from the lightest breath of ill, </p><p class="line">My little one.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">When, as a child, you fell </p><p class="line">And hurt yourself on some unheeded stone, </p><p class="line">You raised your tearstained face </p><p class="line">That I might kiss the place, </p><p class="line">And, kissing, make it well. </p><p class="line">Now I am here, on this green hill, alone, </p><p class="line">And you-in hell.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">Or is it Paradise, </p><p class="line">That field where brave men fight with Giant Wrong?</p><p class="line">Where death is changed to life </p><p class="line">In the heroic strife, </p><p class="line">The willing sacrifice </p><p class="line">Where Love gives sleep to those who suffer long, </p><p class="line">And shuts their eyes.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">Nor heaven nor hell is there, </p><p class="line">But some dim purgatorial place between, </p><p class="line">Where, purified by pain, </p><p class="line">The spirit slips its chain, </p><p class="line">And, cleaving the bright air,</p><p class="line">The young white souls, clear-eyed, august,serene,</p><p class="line">Pass to God's care.</p></div><p class="byline">Beatrice A. Lees.</p>(The <em>Spectator</em>, (June 19th, 1915.)</body></html> · Great War