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...IN THE TRENCHES by RICHARD ALDINGTON PORTRAIT OF A BABY by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET AFTER VERLAINE by ANSELM HOLLO LOST ILLUSIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A BANJO SONG by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON |