And hope's strong magnet drew them on;
What hopes they were no man can say,
But we enjoy what they have won.
We pass in safety where they found
Only the dark and bloody ground.
Between the Rockies' peaks of snow
And blue Columbia rolling free,
From Washington to Mexico,
From the Sierras to the sea,
Our footsteps press historic ground,
Albeit often all unknown.
Storms level soon the simple mound,
Time crumbles e'en the lettered stone;
The wilderness the secret keeps
Of him who in its bosom sleeps.
Not always. If perchance a seed
The wanderer brought from home, should share
The earth with him, and being freed,
And fertilized, spring up more fair
Than its fair ancestors at home,
And spread, and cover all that spot
With the sad story, writ in bloom,
So that it could not be forgot—
'Twould match this tale I'm telling you—
The Poppies of Wa-ii-lat-pu!
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