Not yet will those measureless fields be green again <br />Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed; <br />There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deep a stain, <br />Though for ever over it we may speak as proudly as we may tread. <br />But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrust of an inward sword have more slowly bled, <br />We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, winged too, at the column’s head. <br />And over the stairway, at the foot—oh! here, leave desolate, passionate hands to spread <br />Violets, roses, and laurel, with the small, sweet, tinkling country things <br />Speaking so wistfully of other Springs, <br />From the little gardens of little places where son or sweetheart was born and bred. <br />In splendid sleep, with a thousand brothers <br />To lovers—to mothers <br />Here, too, lies he: <br />Under the purple, the green, the red, <br />It is all young life: it must break some women's hearts to see <br />Such a brave, gay coverlet to such a bed! <br />Only, when all is done and said, <br />God is not mocked and neither are the dead <br />For this will stand in our Marketplace— <br />Who’ll sell, who’ll buy <br />(Will you or I <br />Lie each to each with the better grace)? <br />While looking into every busy whore's and huckster's face <br />As they drive their bargains, is the Face <br />Of God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.<br /><br />Charlotte Mary Mew<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cenotaph/
