Not yet will those measureless fields be green
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
Violets, roses, and laurel, with the small, sweet, tinkling country
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
Such a brave, gay coverlet to such a bed!
Only, when all is done and said,
God is not mocked and neither are the
For this will stand in our Marketplace— Who’ll sell, who’ll buy (Will you or
Lie each to each with the better grace)?
While looking into every busy whore's and huckster's
As they drive their bargains, is the
Of God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.
Written September 1919
