Poem - George Arthur Watt

Picardy

By George Arthur Watt

In the spring of the year in Picardy,

The fields are robed in green;

And, far and near in Picardy,

The hand of God is seen;

And ‘mid the green is a flame of red

Where the crimson poppy gleams

And gracefully bows her drooping head

In the dying sunlight’s beams.

‘Tis the spring of the year in Picardy,

But the fields are torn and scarred;

For, far and near in Picardy,

God’s works by man are marred,

Still are the fields stained deep with red –

The marks of a great price paid

By the blood of the ever-living dead

Whose laurels ne’er will fade.

For there’ll ne’er be a year in Picardy

When peace again holds sway,

And, far and near in Picardy,

The fields with flowers are gay,

But the poppy will bloom with the deeper red

Of the blood of a hero brave

Where she reverently bows her drooping head

As she mourns o’er a lonely grave.