<h2> Smile, Smile, Smile </h2>
<p>Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned<br/>
Yesterday's Mail; the casualties (typed small)<br/>
And (large) Vast Booty from our Latest Haul.<br/>
Also, they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned;<br/>
For, said the paper, "When this war is done<br/>
The men's first instinct will be making homes.<br/>
Meanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes,<br/>
It being certain war has just begun.<br/>
Peace would do wrong to our undying dead,—<br/>
The sons we offered might regret they died<br/>
If we got nothing lasting in their stead.<br/>
We must be solidly indemnified.<br/>
Though all be worthy Victory which all bought,<br/>
We rulers sitting in this ancient spot<br/>
Would wrong our very selves if we forgot<br/>
The greatest glory will be theirs who fought,<br/>
Who kept this nation in integrity."<br/>
Nation?—The half-limbed readers did not chafe<br/>
But smiled at one another curiously<br/>
Like secret men who know their secret safe.<br/>
This is the thing they know and never speak,<br/>
That England one by one had fled to France<br/>
(Not many elsewhere now save under France).<br/>
Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week,<br/>
And people in whose voice real feeling rings<br/>
Say: How they smile! They're happy now, poor things.<br/></p>
<p>23rd September 1918.<br/></p>
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