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Poem	Don't cheer, damn you! Don't cheer! Silence! Your bitterest tear Is fulsomely sweet to-day. . . . Down on your knees and pray. See, they sing as they go, Marching row upon row. Who will be spared to return, Sombre and starkly stern? Chaps whom we knew - s0 strange, Distant and dark with change; Silent as those they slew, Something in them dead too. Who will return this way, To sing as they sing to-day. Send to the glut of the guns Bravest and best of you sons. Hurl a million to slaughter, Blood flowing like Thames water; Pile up pyramid high Your dead to the anguished sky; A monument down all time Of hate and horror and crime. Weep, rage, pity, curse, fear - Anything, but . . . don't cheer. Sow to the ploughing guns Seed of your splendid sons. Let your heroic slain Richly manure the plain. What will the harvest be? Unborn of Unborn will see. . . . Dark is the sky and drear. . . . For the pity of God don't cheer. Dark and dread is their way. Who sing as they march to-day. . . . Humble your hearts and pray.
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