Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/271

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Dead are the lips where love laughed or sang,

The hands of youth eager to lay hold of life,

Eyes that have laughed to eyes,

And these were begotten,

O Love, and lived lightly, and burnt

With the lust of a man's first strength: ere they were rent,

Almost at unawares, savagely; and strewn

In bloody fragments, to be the carrion

Of rats and crows.

And the sentry moves not, searching

Night for menace with weary eyes. Frederic Manning