There's music in the measured tread Of those returning from the dead Like scattered flowers from a plain So lately crimson, with the slain. No more the sound of shuffled feet Shall mark the poltroon on the street, Nor shifting, sodden, downcast eye Reveal the man afraid to die. They shall have paid full, utterly The price of peace across the sea, When, with uplifted glance, they come To claim a kindly welcome home. Nor shall the old-time daedal sting Of prejudice, their manhood wing, Nor heights, nor depths, nor living streams Stand in the pathway of their dreams! |