---------------------------------------------------------------------------- This file was prepared and is ©2022 by Keygen Ltd LLC for The Proud Reader™ project. https://theproudreader.com/ https://k3y93n.com/ https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHnUg4W9wkn2ISDoCxucd_A https://www.bitchute.com/theproudreader/ https://rumble.com/c/TheProudReader https://odysee.com/@TheProudReader:c https://www.minds.com/TheProudReader https://gab.com/TheProudReader https://parler.com/profile/TheProudReader https://twitter.com/TheProudReader https://www.patreon.com/TheProudReader https://www.subscribestar.com/theproudreader https://www.paypal.com/biz/fund?id=5GFSVWEHUPK66 This document is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International license (CC BY-SA 4.0) https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/ Keygen Ltd LLC provides no warranty as to the accuracy of the information or text included in this document. It is provided "as is" and is for entertainment purposes. However, the text below this paragraph is in the public domain, is not subject to the above license, and may be used freely on its own as you see fit—for commercial and non-commercial purposes. Only this document as a whole falls under the CC BY-SA 4.0. If you do use the below text, we would still appreciate a nod since we did the hard work and fixed OCR errors in many cases, but attribution is only required if you modify and redistribute this file. Enjoy! ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Wife of Flanders G. K. Chesterton published in Poems Of The Great War, page 23-24 by London: Chatto & Windus, 1914 Low and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered, Where I had seven sons until to-day— A little hill of hay your spur has scattered. . . This is not Paris. You have lost the way. You, staring at your sword to find it brittle, Surprised at the surprise that was your plan, Who, shaking and breaking barriers not a little, Find never more the death-door of Sedan. Must I for more than carnage call you claimant, Paying you a penny for each son you slay? Man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment For what you have lost. And how shall I repay? What is the price of that red spark that caught me From a kind farm that never had a name? What is the price of that dead man they brought me? For other dead men do not look the same. How should I pay for one poor graven steeple Whereon you shattered what you shall not know? How should I pay you, miserable people, How should I pay you everything you owe? Unhappy, can I give you back your honour? Though I forgave, would any man forget? While all the great green land has trampled on her The treason and terror of the night we met. Not any more in vengeance or in pardon One old wife bargains for a bean that's hers. You have no word to break; no heart to harden. Ride on and prosper. You have lost your spurs.