"Where march your feet so gaily, careless crowd,
That we may kiss them?
Where sound your little songs that rang so loud
To us that miss them?"
There are no songs, no happy marching feet,
No favours flying:
The drummer passes . . . on the quiet street
The sun is dying.
Sun that must bleed to death so red and brave! . . .
Have done with weeping,
But put your ribbons on a soldier's grave
As he lies sleeping.
That we may kiss them?
Where sound your little songs that rang so loud
To us that miss them?"
There are no songs, no happy marching feet,
No favours flying:
The drummer passes . . . on the quiet street
The sun is dying.
Sun that must bleed to death so red and brave! . . .
Have done with weeping,
But put your ribbons on a soldier's grave
As he lies sleeping.
1914
57
