What is this Land of white enchanted Peace,
That lies within the heart of bursting shells,
Where Death's red trampling footsteps never cease,
And Love sits weeping on the wayside wells?
The bitterness of Life and Death is o'er:
One breath of Will, and these our souls were swept
Round wild capes of the world to this restful shore,
Where we almost forget our eyes once wept.

They move us not—the land where we were born.
The streets, the homes we nevermore may see.
Nor wife, nor child, nor weeping eyes forlorn,
Yea, tho' they haunt us thro' Eternity;
When we gave all, Love's waters mounted higher,
A sea of glass, tho' mingled now with fire!