Classic Poem

Burying , burying ...
Clods are we, clods we toss.
The children weave flower garlands in the sun
For this or that dead one
Or make a cross,
While we are burying.

Listening, listening,
The dead men heard the battle overhead.
The gravestones fell in ruins to the ground —
Beneath, more dead we found

Fighting on, fighting on,
The rest passed by — or halted here —
We buried two, up in the graveyard there.
German and French they were.

Pitiless, merciless,
But well-matched, too, they cut and thrust,
Until they reached that little cottage door —
They never came out more.

Lying so — buried so —
I sometimes think, at night, of how they must
Hate still, and struggle to arise
Death-fury in their eyes

Side by side, side by side,
Surely they would not, think you, rest in peace?
Too near was dug each grave.
Eh bien , they both were brave!