Page:For remembrance, soldier poets who have fallen in the war, Adcock, 1920.djvu/214

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The gold stalks hide

Bodies of men who died

Charging at dawn through the dew to be killed or to kill—

I thank the gods that the flowers are beautiful still.

When night falls dark we creep

In silence to our dead;

We dig a few feet deep

And leave them there to sleep—

But blood at night is red,

Yea, even at night,

And a dead man's face is white;

And I dry my hands, that are also trained to kill,

And I look at the stars—for the stars are beautiful still.

And he wove into his verse something of the dream that was at the hearts of all the fighting-men when he gave language to his never-to-be-realised vision of 'When I Come Home':

When I come home, dear folk o' mine,

We 'll drink a cup of olden wine;

And yet, however rich it be,

No wine will taste so good to me

As English air. How I shall thrill

To drink it in on Hampstead Hill,

When I come home!

When I come home and leave behind

Dark things I would not call to mind,

I 'll taste good ale and home-made bread,

And see white sheets and pillows spread,