At the cross-roads I halt
And stand stock-still....
The linked and flickering constellations climb
Slowly the spread black heaven's immensity.
The wind wanders like a thought at fault.
Within the close-shuttered cottage nigh
I hear — while its fearful, ag'd master sleeps like the dead —
A slow clock chime
With solemn thrill
The most sombre hour of time,
And see stand in the cottage's garden chill
The two white crosses, one at each grave's head....
O France, France, France! I loved you, love you still;
But, Oh! why took you not my life instead?