At first glance these woods, France's shield against
her enemies--rose still and beautiful, like mystic abodes of peace,
against the pale horizon. But a searching gaze showed how they had
suffered. For every trio of living trees there seemed to be one corpse,
shattered by bombs, or blasted by evil gas. The sight of them struck at
the heart: yet they were heroes, as well as martyrs, I said to myself.
They had truly died for France, to save France. And as I thought this, I
knew that if I were a poet, beautiful words would come at my call, to
clothe my fancy about the forests.
I wanted the right words so much that it was pain when they wouldn't
answer my wish, for I seemed to hear only a faint, far-off echo of some
fine strain of music, whose real notes I failed to catch.
Always forests have fascinated me; sweet, fairy-peopled groves of my
native island, and emerald-lit beech woods of England. But I never felt
the grand meaning of forests as I felt them to-day, in this ravaged and
tortured land. I could have cried out to them: "Oh, you forests of
France, what a part you've played in the history of wars! How wise and
brave of you to stand in unbroken line, a rampart protecting your
country's frontiers, through the ages. Forests, you are bands of
soldiers, in armour of wood, and you, too, like your human brothers,
have hearts that beat and veins that bleed for France! You are soldiers,
and you are fortresses--Nature's fortresses stronger than all modern
inventions.
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