Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/302

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A pleasant land, a peaceful land

Of wooded hill and weald,

Where kine stand knee-deep in the grass,

And sheep graze in the field;

A blessèd land, where a wounded heart

Might readily be healed.

A wholesome land, where each white road

Leads to a ruddy hearth;

Where still is heard the sound of song

And the kindly note of mirth;

Where the strong man cheerful wakes to toil

And the dead sleep sound i' the earth.

I have not wept when I have seen

My chosen comrades die;

I have not wept while we have digged

The grave where they should lie;

But now I lay my head in my hand

Lest my comrades see me cry.

The little children, two by two,

Stand on the five-barred gate,

And wave their hands to waft us home

Like passengers of state;

My heart is very full, so full

It holds no room for hate.

The children climb the five-barred gate

And blow us kisses five,

The little cripple in his car

Waves from the carriage drive

Blessed are the dead, but blessed e'en more

We soldiers still alive!

Lo! we draw near to London town,

The troop-train jolts and drags,

The friendly poor come forth once more

To greet us in their rags—

The very linen on the line

Flutters and flaunts like flags!