Classic Poem

The guns are silent for an hour; the sounds
Of war forget their doom; the work is done—
Strong men, uncounted corpses heaped in mounds,
Are rotting in the sun.

Foul carrion—souls till yesterday!—are these
With piteous faces in the bloodied mire;
But where are now their generous charities?
Their laughter, their desire?

In each rent breast, each crushed and shattered skull
Lived joy and sorrow, tenderness and pain,
Hope, ardours, passions brave and beautiful
Among these thousands slain!

A little time ago they heard the call
Of mating birds in thicket and in brake;
They wondering saw night's jewelled curtain fall
And all the pale stars wake….

Bodies most marvellously fashioned, stark,
Strewn broadcast out upon the trampled sod—
These temples of the Holy Ghost—O hark!—
These images of God!

Flesh, as the Word became in Bethlehem,
Houses to hold their Sacramental Lord:
Swiftly and terribly to harvest them
Swept the relentless sword!

Happy if in your dying you can give
Some symbol of the Eternal Sacrificed,
Some pardon to the hearts of those who live—
Dying the death of Christ!