No Soldiers Here
To die midstream
moonbeam of rosette
bloom
Unseen to down-pour
whites of greyness grown
Be poisoned spears to
soldiers gone too soon
From country-cuddling
hold and seeds unsown.
Through wintery cold of
dewy-morning scorn
Where lies comfort in
dreams of homeward
force
The soldier's toil be made
the clarion-horn
To cheering crowds of
clouds to rain-remorse.
And dust o'er dust, the
soldiers buried, reign
A waste of years before
the waste behind
As mourning silence o'er
medallions feign
Dethrones the rest and
battle-days remind.
THE EPITAPH
"A soldier shall ne'er
grow to death unblest
Unless uþon regrets, be
laid to rest".
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