THE dead men to the living call: Brothers of old, how goes the day? Is there ripe fruit on the Southern wall Rich with our blood that rot in clay? Brothers of the great brotherhood, Do they fling roses for your feet? The living heard them where they stood Idle, or trudged the pitiless street, Hopeless, unwanted. Brothers of old, How go the song, the dance, the mirth? So you are warm, we are not cold, Lapped in impenetrable earth. The Victors stand in the market-place, And no man gives them wine or bread; Would that we too had won that race And earned the clay-cold rest! they said. But to the dead, who lie alone, They answered: It is well; go sleep, Never to know what we have known; With dreams to keep; with dreams to keep! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THAT KIND OF POEM' by KAREN SWENSON A LITTLE DUTCH GARDEN by HARRIET WHITNEY DURBIN OPEN, TIME by LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY SONNET WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914: 2 by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY PEBBLES by KENNETH SLADE ALLING |