Page:Soldier poets, songs of the fighting men, 1916.djvu/80

 ALEXANDER ROBERTSON

ES, you will do it, silently of course;

For after many a toast and much applause,

One is in love with silence, being hoarse,

Such more than sorrow is your quiet's cause.

Yes, I can see you at it, in a room

Well-lit and warm, high-roofed and soft to the tread,

Satiate and briefly mindful of the tomb

With its poor victim of Teutonic lead.

Some unknown notability will rise,

Ridiculously solemn, glass abrim,

And say, "To our dear brethren in the skies,"—

Dim are all eyes, all glasses still more dim.

Your pledge of sorrow but a cup to cheer,

Your sole remark some witless platitude,

Such as, "Although it does not yet appear,

To suffer is the sole beatitude.

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