Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/424

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Purchased our wreaths of harvest and ripe ears;

Whose empty hands, whose empty hearts, whose tears

In this Gethsemane

Ransomed the days to be.

We leave them to Thee, Saviour. We've no price,

No utmost treasure of the seas or lands,

No words, no deeds, to pay their sacrifice.

Only while England stands,

Their pearl, their pride, their altar,—not their grave,—

Bid us remember in what hours they gave

All that mankind may give

That we might live. Marjorie L. C. Pickthall

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