Page:Poems of the Great War - Cunliffe.djvu/309

 ��THE REAPERS

Red are the hands of the Reapers,

And the harvest is so white ! Red are the feet that are treading

The threshing floors by night : And, on the young brows, dripping

As with the dews of morn. Deep rose-red are the woundings.

Like scars of a crown of thorn.

Tired, so many, with reaping, —

Tired with treading the grain. Still they lie, in their sleeping.

Low in the Valley of Pain, — Never again to be quaflSng

The joy of life, like wine ; Never again to be laughing

In Youth's glad hour divine.

Birds shall sing in the branches. Children dance by the shore ;

But they who shared the red reaping Shall come back never more.

�� �