The Festubert Shrine

A sycamore on either side In whose lovely leafage cried Hushingly the little winds — Thus was Mary’s shrine descried. “Sixteen Hundred and Twenty-Four” Legended above the door, “Pray, sweet gracious Lady, pray For our souls,”—and nothing more. Builded of rude gray stones and these Scarred and marred from base to frieze With the shrapnel’s pounces—ah, Fair she braved War’s gaunt disease: Fair she pondered on the strange Embitterments of latter change, Looking fair towards Festubert, Cloven roof and tortured grange. Work of carving too there was, (Once had been her reredos), In this cool and peaceful cell That the hoarse guns blared across. Twisted oaken pillars graced With oaken amaranths interlaced In oaken garlandry, had borne Her holy niche—and now laid waste. Mary, pray for us? O pray! In thy dwelling by this way What poor folks have knelt to thee! We are no less poor than they.