Classic Poem

We pity those whom quick death overtakes,
Though they will never see
How hope dissolves and founded loyalty shakes
Traitorously, piteously.
They lose at most and death is voiceless still
Nor whispers in their ears
When they are lying on the deep-scarred hill
What our calm silence hears.
They lose all various life, they lose the day,
The clouds, the winds, the rain,
The blossoms down an English road astray
They will not see again;
Great is their loss but more tremendous things
To us at home are given,
Doubts, fears and greeds and shameful waverings
That hide the blood-red heaven.
They knew no doubt and fear was soon put by:
Freely their souls could move
In deeds that gave new life to loyalty,
A sharper edge to love.
They are the conquerors, the happy dead,
Who gave their lives away,
And now amid the trenches where they bled,
Forgetful of the day,
Deaf, blind and unaware, sleep on and on,
Nor open eyes to weep,
Know nought of what is ended or begun
But only and always sleep.