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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Twickenham's green mead is dank and gray The sun behind the clouds has gone away In the drying woods a solitary soul, O alone, So alone, translate grief to incessant moan. Nature shows its one with us, in all things We suffer it shares and times our stings And often sorrowing, but ah muted mouth Of trees tell us then what mortality is about! We were one hundred eighty strong to start But some could not endure, the long shaping That mettled a special breed, firmed the heart Till we became comrades, dreamers hoping To give our land a new birth and happiness. Soon only a remnant was left for the process And how played, fought, laughed, loved, ate And thought we were captains of all our fate. Perhaps some were, but some so soon, as dust Would grow the visioned grain, and more the pain For those died last, than when in youth's distrust Some left to explore that other dimmer terrain Here now in old age each passing friend assures Us, time is slowly evening up the haunted scores We grieve for this sense of lost, this vanity of life This less than social ending of unfinished strife. Yet something human in us grieve for human loss Beyond the fathom of our ken, missing each friend, Each classmate, each ole farmer from the grass - Knowing not where or when each journey will end O but Twickenham green mead do not cry, we hail You immortal in the work you set us, our hopes prevail That beyond the memories of our rustic days, again We shall meet husbandmen of the bright celestial plain.
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