David Westcott Brown, (1892-1916)
Written in May 1916
The roads are all torn, but the sun's in the sky,
The houses are waste; but the day is all fair,
There s death in the air; and the larks are on high,
Though we die - ; It is spring-time, what do we care?
The Gardens are rank; but the grass is still green,
The orchards are shot-torn; There's bloom on the trees,
There s war all around; Yet is nature serene,
There s danger; we'll bear it, fanned by the breeze.
Some are wounded; they rest, and their glory is known,
Some are killed; there's peace for them under the sod,
Men s homes are in peril; their souls are their own,
The bullets are near us; not nearer than God.
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