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.