IN FRANCE'S FLOWERED FIELDS.
IN France's flowered fields they lie,
And she will hold them close and dear,
Above their graves her trees will sigh,
Her grasses cover them year by year.
On Summer noons the sun will stream
In cheerful warmth across their beds,
By night the moon's slant, filmy beam
Build aureoles about their heads.
The fitful winds will make them moan
In soft and plaintive melodies,
And they shall lie apart, alone,
Through all the coming centuries;
Dwelling in silences so vast
No thought to that high tower may climb;
An austere beauty holds them fast
Beyond the boundaries of time.
They were to us mere laughing boys,
But in the passing of a breath
They turned from life's scarce-tasted joys
To this high majesty of death. . .
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