Where iris water-lilies lave,
Or like some lark’s translucent wave
Of song above white hawthorn hedges,
The maiden ripples French to me;
But I am like an argonaut
In some mute agony of thought,
Lost in sound’s sweet tranquillity.
Alfred J. Fritchey, Camp Hospital 30.
“WHO SAID SUNNY FRANCE?”
It lies on your blankets and over your bed,