Classic Poem

Strong men fast asleep
With coverlets wrought of clay,
Do soft dreams o'er you creep
Of friends who are here to-day?
Do you know, O men low lying
In the hard and chilly bed,
That we, the slowly dying
Are giving a day to the dead?
Do you know that sighs for your deaths
Across our heart-strings play,
E'en from the last faint breaths
Of the sweet-lipped mouth of May?
When you fell, at Duty's call,
Your fame it glittered high
As leaves of the sombre Fall
Grow brighter though they die.
Men of the silent bands,
Men of the half-told days
Lift up your spectre hands
And take our heart-bouquets.