The Cenotaph
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,
Though 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 column’s head.
And over the stairway, at the foot—oh! here,
leave desolate, passionate hands to spread
Violets, 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
To lovers—to mothers
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 Market-place—
Who’ll sell, who’ll buy
(Will you or I
Lie 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.
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