Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/371

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371
THE FALLEN

Say only this, "They are dead." Then add thereto,
"Yet many a better one has died before."
Then scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
Great Death has made all his for evermore.


IN FLANDERS FIELDS [Reprinted by permission of the Proprietors of Punch.]

IN Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.


We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.


Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.


THE ANXIOUS DEAD

O GUNS, fall silent till the dead men hear
Above their heads the legions pressing on:
(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear
And died not knowing how the day had gone.)


O flashing muzzles, pause and let them see
The coming dawn that streaks the day afar:
Then let your mighty chorus witness be
To them, and Cæsar, that we still make war.


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