They are embosomed in the sod, In still and tranquil leisure, Their lives they've cast like trifles down, To serve their country's pleasure. Nor bugle call, nor mother's voice, Nor moody mob's unreason, Shall break their solace and repose Through swiftly changing season. O graves of men who lived and died Afar from life's high pleasures, Fold them in tenderly and warm With manifold fond measures. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LADY POVERTY by ALICE MEYNELL TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE by WALTER MITCHELL GLORY OF WOMEN by SIEGFRIED SASSOON HERTHA by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 34. AL-'AZIZ by EDWIN ARNOLD EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON by MATTHEW ARNOLD MY BALD HEAD by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER |