Could they but know—the countless heroes dead Who sleep along the Marne and 'neath the wave, Could they but know, who first and since have shed Their warm, red blood—humanity to save; Could they but know, as we, the living know, That what they gave, all selfless and in pain, To stem the tides of hell and nameless woe Was not, thank God! a gift in vain: I think the graves would be a little gay Could they, the tenants, look upon this day. Could they but view a ransomed world's delight From where they slumber 'neath the crosses' line, Could brush aside the dust that clogs their sight And see our faces with the tears that shine. ... Could they who sank in trench and mud and cold, Sank in the crashing and the hurricane Of shot and hate-winged gases' belching fold, Could they but know it was so far from vain— O God! a quickness on their eyelids lay And vision give our holy dead to-day. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: IMANUEL EHRENHARDT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: JAMES GARBER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS COLLOQUE SENTIMENTAL by PAUL VERLAINE A POET'S WELCOME TO HIS LOVE-BEGOTTEN DAUGHTER by ROBERT BURNS OMNES EODEM COGIMUR by AMMIANUS THE GODODDIN: CARADOC by ANEIRIN |