Classic Poem

No more for them shall Evening's rose unclose,
Nor Dawn's emblazoned panoplies be spread;
Alike, the Rain's warm kiss and stabbing snows,
Unminded, fall upon each hallowed head.
But the Bugles, as they leap and wildly sing,
Rejoice, . . . remembering.

The guns' mad music their young ears have known—
War's lullabies that moaned on Flanders Plain;
To-night the Wind walks on them, still as stone,
Where they lie huddled close as riven grain.
But the Drums, reverberating, proudly roll—
They love a Soldier's soul!

With arms outflung, and eyes that laughed at Death,
They drank the wine of sacrifice and loss;
For them a life-time spanned a burning breath,
And Truth they visioned, cleaNof earthly dross.
But the Fifes,—can ye not hear their lusty shriek?
They know, and now they speak!

The lazy drift of cloud, the noon-day hum
Of vagrant bees; the lark's untrammeled song
Shall gladden them no more, who now lie dumb
In Death's strange sleep, yet once were swift and strong.
But the Bells, that to all living listeners peal,
With joy their deeds reveal!

They have given their lives, with bodies bruised and broken,
Upon their Country's altar they have bled;
They have left, as priceless heritage, a token
That Honor lives forever with the Dead.
And the Bugles, as their rich notes rise and fall—
They answer, knowing all.