Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/405

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Brothers, my brothers, I pray you—hark!

I hear a song upon the wing,

Upon the silver wing of morn!

It is—dear God!—it is the lark—

It is the lark above the corn,

The fledgling corn of England's Spring! . ..

Ah! pity thou my wearied heart:

Cease! Vex me not!

Brothers, I beg you be at rest,

Be quite at rest for England's sake:

The flowerful hours in England now

Sing low your sleep in English ears:

And would ye have your sorrows wake

The Mother's heart to further tears? . ..

Nay! be at peace, her loyal dead.

Sleep! Vex her not! Walter Lightowler Wilkinson