Whoso has gift of simple speech
    Of measured words and plain,
To him be given it to teach
    The sadness of Lorraine.

She asked but sun and rain to bless
    Her blue unfolding hills,
And time, to heal the old distress
    Of dim-remembered ills.

The fields, the vineyards and the lathe,
    The river, loved so well—
O sunset pools and lads that bathe
    Along the green Moselle.

One whispered word—curt, bitter, brief,
    Lives now in black Lorraine,
One word that sums her whole of grief—
    Dead children, women slain.

The curé’s blood that stained the road,
    The village burned away,
The needless horrors men abode
    Are all in one word—they.