Guns on the battle lines have pounded now a year br between Brussels and Paris. br And, William Morris, when I read your old chapter on br the great arches and naves and little whimsical br corners of the Churches of Northern France--Brr-rr! br I'm glad you're a dead man, William Morris, I'm glad br you're down in the damp and mouldy, only a memory br instead of a living man--I'm glad you're gone. br You never lied to us, William Morris, you loved the br shape of those stones piled and carved for you to br dream over and wonder because workmen got joy br of life into them, br Workmen in aprons singing while they hammered, and br praying, and putting their songs and prayers into br the walls and roofs, the bastions and cornerstones br and gargoyles--all their children and kisses of br women and wheat and roses growing. br I say, William Morris, I'm glad you're gone, I'm glad br you're a dead man. br Guns on the battle lines have pounded a year now between br Brussels and Paris.