Oh, quiet peoples sleeping bed by bed Beneath grey roof-trees in the glimmering West, We who can see the silver grey and red Rise over No Man's Land—salute your rest. Oh, quiet comrades, sleeping in the clay Beneath a turmoil you need no more mark, We who have lived through yet another day Salute your graves at setting in of dark. And rising from your beds or from the clay You, dead, or far from lines of slain and slayers, Thro' your eternal or your finite day Give us your prayers! |