Till the tread of marching feet <br />Through the quiet grass-grown street <br />Of the little town shall come, <br />Soldier, rest awhile at home. <br /> <br />While the banners idly hang, <br />While the bugles do not clang, <br />While is hushed the clamorous drum, <br />Soldier, rest awhile at home. <br /> <br />In the breathing-time of Death, <br />While the sword is in its sheath, <br />While the cannon's mouth is dumb, <br />Soldier, rest awhile at home. <br /> <br />Not too long the rest shall be. <br />Soon enough, to Death and thee, <br />The assembly call shall come. <br />Soldier, rest awhile at home.<br /><br />Robert Fuller Murray<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-song-of-truce/
