'For this—with our cerements' gleaming grace
We have covered the fallen in every place—
'Yea, with billowy flutter of pale, pale gold
Your dead have we hidden, in love we enfold.
'Though born in dire travail, yet cometh the Spring:
From your lost shall be blossom and bourgeoning!'
So his life flowered-bowed to the ground
There are daffodils blooming on Vimy mound.
THE CHILD DANCING TO THE DRUM
Were are soldiers made of, made of,
Sweet little maid so gay?'
'Pipeclay and drill the foeman to kill!'
And she laughed as she danced away.
O dance to the sound of the drum, the drum!
It booms down the city street:
'Soldiers, the Soldiers! Here they come!
Dance to the thrumming beat!'
'What are soldiers made of, made of?'
Just of men like you.
Men who smile if sad the while
Men whose hearts are true.
O hark to the song of the drum, the drum!
It calls down the city street:
'Soldier, O soldier! won't you come?
Help us!' the Drummers beat.
What are soldiers made of, made of?'
Strength and spirit and might:
The heart to care, the will to dare,
The body keen for a fight.
O rally to the call of the drum, the drum!
(Yea, follow the childish feet)
'Quit you like men and come, O come!
Help us!' the Drummers beat.
107
