Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/334

292 Where the parapet is low

And level with the eye

Poppies and cornflowers glow

And the corn sways to and fro

In a pattern against the sky.

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.

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