WHEN the trees blossom again; When our spirits lighten -- When in quick sun and rain Once more the green fields brighten; Each golden flower those fields among, The hum of thrifting bee, Will be the risen flower and song Of Youth's mortality. When the birds flutter their wings, When our scars are healing -- When the furry-footed things At night again are stealing; When through the wheat each rippling wave, The fragrance of flower breath Will bring a message from the grave, A whispering from death. When the sweet waters can flow, When the world's forgetting -- When once more the cattle low At golden calm sun-setting; Each peaceful evening's murmur, then, And sigh the waters give, Will tell immortal tale of men Who died that we might live. |