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".