THE CENOTAPH
Notyet will those measureless fields be green againWhere 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 spreadViolets, roses, and laurel, with the small, sweet, twinkling country thingsSpeaking 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 brothersTo lovers—to mothersHere, too, lies he:Under the purple, the green, the red,It is all young life: it must break some women’s hearts to seeSuch 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 ILie each to each with the better grace)?While looking into every busy whore’s and huckster’s faceAs they drive their bargains, is the FaceOf God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.
Notyet will those measureless fields be green againWhere 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 spreadViolets, roses, and laurel, with the small, sweet, twinkling country thingsSpeaking 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 brothersTo lovers—to mothersHere, too, lies he:Under the purple, the green, the red,It is all young life: it must break some women’s hearts to seeSuch 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 ILie each to each with the better grace)?While looking into every busy whore’s and huckster’s faceAs they drive their bargains, is the FaceOf God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.
Notyet will those measureless fields be green againWhere 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 spreadViolets, roses, and laurel, with the small, sweet, twinkling country thingsSpeaking 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 brothersTo lovers—to mothersHere, too, lies he:Under the purple, the green, the red,It is all young life: it must break some women’s hearts to seeSuch a brave, gay coverlet to such a bed!Only, when all is done and said,God is not mocked and neither are the dead.
Notyet 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, twinkling 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 ILie each to each with the better grace)?While looking into every busy whore’s and huckster’s faceAs they drive their bargains, is the FaceOf God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.
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.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTEDiacritical marks, where missing from the original table of contents, have been added so that the titles listed in the contents exactly match the poem titles from the main text.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Diacritical marks, where missing from the original table of contents, have been added so that the titles listed in the contents exactly match the poem titles from the main text.