Not yet will those measureless fields be green again
Where only yesterday
the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed;
There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deep a stain,
for ever over it we may speak as proudly as we may tread.
But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrust
of an inward sword have more slowly bled,
We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, winged too, at the
And over the stairway, at the foot—oh! here, leave desolate, passionate hands to spread
roses, and laurel, with the small, sweet, tinkling country things
Speaking so wistfully of other Springs,
From the little
gardens of little places where son or sweetheart was born and bred.
In splendid sleep, with a thousand brothers
Here, too, lies he:
Under the purple, the green, the red,
It is all young life: it must break some women's
hearts to see
Such a brave, gay coverlet to such a bed!
Only, when all is done and said,
God is not mocked and neither
are the dead
For this will stand in our Marketplace—
Who’ll sell, who’ll buy
(Will you or I
each to each with the better grace)?
While looking into every busy whore's and huckster's face
As they drive their bargains,
is the Face
Of God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.