It was three slim young wraiths that met in the heart of
a great play-ground,
And two of them watched the shining sports in the fields
that ringed them round,
But one of them bent an earthward ear to follow a far-off
sound.
"Listen," he cried, "they _know_, down there! Oh! don't
you hear the bells?"
"Not I," said one, with a wise young smile, "I used
to hear the shells.
Not now; oh, not for ages now! I came from the Dardanelles."
"I from the Marne," the third one sighed, "but these are
only names.
Eh bien, mon vieux, one must forget those little strifes
and fames!
Here is a host of Golden Lads, that play at golden games."
But the new boy ran to the turf's green rim and bent
with an anxious frown,--
"It's the curfew bell! I hear them cheer! It's my little
own home town!
I hear my dad! I can almost _see_--" and his eager gaze
plunged down.
"Soon, mon ami," soothed the dark-eyed wraith, "these
teasing dreams will cease!
One plays all day, one leaps the stars, one seeks the
Golden Fleece!"
Still the new boy turned his white young face from the
Land of the Great Release.--
"_But I was killed two hours ago, while they signed the
terms of peace._"