The gold stalks hide
Bodies of men who died
Charging at dawn through the dew to be killed or to kill—
I thank the gods that the flowers are beautiful still.
When night falls dark we creep
In silence to our dead;
We dig a few feet deep
And leave them there to sleep—
But blood at night is red,
Yea, even at night,
And a dead man's face is white;
And I dry my hands, that are also trained to kill,
And I look at the stars—for the stars are beautiful still.
And he wove into his verse something of the dream that was at the hearts of all the fighting-men when he gave language to his never-to-be-realised vision of 'When I Come Home':
When I come home, dear folk o' mine,
We 'll drink a cup of olden wine;
And yet, however rich it be,
No wine will taste so good to me
As English air. How I shall thrill
To drink it in on Hampstead Hill,
When I come home!
When I come home and leave behind
Dark things I would not call to mind,
I 'll taste good ale and home-made bread,
