Picardy

When the trees blossom again;
When our spirits lighten—
When in quick sun and rain
Once more the green fields brighten;
Each golden flower those fields among,
The hum of thrifting bee,
Will be the risen flower and song
Of Youth's mortality.

When the birds flutter their wings,
When our scars are healing—
When the furry-footed things
At night again are stealing;
Then through the wheat each rippling wave,
The fragrance of flower breath
Will bring a message from the grave,
A whispering from death.

When the sweet waters can flow;
When the world's forgetting—
When once more the cattle low
At golden calm sun-setting;
Each peaceful evening's murmur, then,
And sigh the waters give,
Will tell immortal tale of men
Who died that we might live.
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