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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required He was young, fifteen I’m told, When he left his father's farm. His youthful mind was filled With dreams of conquest. His heart was set; his ears were closed To his mother's tearful pleas. He’d not return, he vowed, Till glory crowned him. Thunder rolled across the earth From clouds of fear and hate. The winds of war Were blowing hot and heavy. The wild youth heard the bugle call And drumbeat in his soul; His time to shine was now, And he was ready. No one cared to question him When he lied about his age; His country was in need Of strong, young bodies To throw against the enemy, Whose challenge must be met. The “righteous cause” Was hanging in the balance. Carefully the boy was drilled In the deadly art of war. His hands were quick To learn the skills of combat. It wasn't long till he was cast Upon the battlefield, Where fire, smoke, and blood Obscures all reason. Time crawled on through hell of war, And the boy became a man. But his dreams of glory Woke to sorrow's dawning. The hand of death was everywhere, And it played no favorites. All flesh was subject To that shrouded warrior. On a day when battle smoke, Like sackcloth, cloaked the sun, Opposing armies clashed In lethal concert. Hot lead gave way to cold, hard steel, In fighting hand to hand. Dust swallowed up the blood On glory highway. When at last the day was done And the grisly toll was paid, The field lay strewn With sleeping sons of Adam. No longer was there enmity Upon that solemn mead; The chilly hand of death Erases life’s hot passions. Now, glory is a field of grain That few may hope to harvest. And laurels are reserved For heads of generals. The young man sought The prize in vain; He bravely gave his all, But history forgot his humble story. Now, far from home and family, Beneath a gently sloping green, The young man lies Rewarded for his valor: A hundred cubic feet of soil And a lowly granite stone To celebrate the end Of glory highway.
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