By Grace Hazard Conkling
A hillside acre or two astride a brook,
Tipped toward blue valley, fenced with apple-trees,
A strip of flowery pasture whence the bees
Could gather flavors for your winter book,
Red cedar for the hearth, a lane to crook
An elbow round the cottage, silences
To tempt the thrushes, simple things like these
Were in our dream; for these we used to look.
And now I have found a place of delicate heath
And downward-leaping stream and leaning hill
Above a valley blue as grapes are blue,
It must be fought for as you fight beneath
The flag of stars. Our dream must wait until
France has her cities back, and I have you.