Ruins of trees whose woeful arms
Vainly invoke the sombre sky, —
Stripped, twisted boughs and tortured boles,
Like lost souls, —
How green they grew on the little farms!

Ruins of stricken wall and spire,
Stretched mile on desolate mile along, —
Ghosts of a life of sweet intent,
Riven and rent
By frantic shell and searching fire.

Ruins of soldiers torn and slain,
English bodies broken for you:
Burned in their hearts the battle-cry!...
Forspent they lie,
Clay crumbling slow to clay again.