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.