When you return I see the radiant street,
I hear the rushing of a thousand feet,
I see the ghosts that women come to greet

I can feel roses, roses all the way,
The fearful gladness that no power can stay,
The joy that glows and grows in ambient ray.

Because slim lads come marching home from war?
Truly, slim lads, home from the Very Far:
From fields as distant as the farthest star.

It will be strange to hear the plaudits roll,
Back from that zone where soul is flung on soul,
Where they go out like sparks to one straight goal.

Where souls go out as moments fly,
Urging their claim on the unbending sky—
Surely it must be wonderful to die!


When you return I see the radiant street,
I hear the rushing of a thousand feet—
Living and dead with roses we shall greet.