Rouge Bouquet by Joyce Kilmer — Read

In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet / There is a new-made grave to-day, / Built by never a spade nor pick / Yet covered with earth ten metres thick. / There lie many fighting men, / Dead in their youthful prime, / Never to laugh nor love again / Nor taste the Summertime. / For Death came flying through the air / And stopped his flight at the dugout stair, / Touched his prey and left them there, / Clay to clay. / He hid their bodies stealthily / In the soil of the land they fought to free / And fled away. / Now over the grave abrupt and clear / Three volleys ring; / And perhaps their brave young spirits hear / The bugle sing: / "Go to sleep! / Go to sleep! / Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell. / Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor, / You will not need them any more. / Danger's past; / Now at last, / Go to sleep!"

There is on earth no worthier grave / To hold the bodies of the brave / Than this place of pain and pride / Where they nobly fought and nobly died. / Never fear but in the skies / Saints and angels stand / Smiling with their holy eyes / On this new-come band. / St. Michael's sword darts through the air / And touches the aureole on his hair / As he sees them stand saluting there, / His stalwart sons; / And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill / Rejoice that in veins of warriors still / The Gael's blood runs. / And up to Heaven's doorway floats, / From the wood called Rouge Bouquet, / A delicate cloud of buglenotes / That softly say: / "Farewell! / Farewell! / Comrades true, born anew, peace to you! / Your souls shall be where the heroes are / And your memory shine like the morning-star. / Brave and dear, / Shield us here. / Farewell! "