In a wood they call Rouge Bouquet <br />There is a new-made grave today, <br />Built by never a spade nor pick <br />Yet covered with earth 10 meters thick. <br />There lie many fighting men, <br /> Dead in their youthful prime, <br />Never to laugh nor love again <br /> Nor taste the Summertime. <br />For Death came flying through the air <br />And stopped his flight at the dugout stair, <br />Touched his prey and left them there, <br /> Clay to clay. <br />He hid their bodies stealthily <br />In the soil of the land they fought to free <br /> And fled away. <br />Now over the grave abrupt and clear <br /> Three volleys ring; <br />And perhaps their brave young spirits hear <br /> The bugles sing: <br />"Go to sleep! <br />Go to sleep! <br />Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell. <br />Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor, <br />You will not need them any more. <br />Danger's past; <br />Now at last, <br />Go to sleep!" <br /> <br />There is on earth no worthier grave <br />To hold the bodies of the brave <br />Than this place of pain and pride <br />Where they nobly fought and nobly died. <br />Never fear but in the skies <br />Saints and angels stand <br />Smiling with their holy eyes <br /> On this new-come band. <br />St. Michael's sword darts through the air <br />and touches the aureole on his hair <br />As he sees them stand saluting there, <br /> His stalwart sons: <br />And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill <br />Rejoice that in veins of warriors still <br /> The Gael's blood runs. <br />And up to Heaven's doorway floats, <br /> From the wood called Rouge Bouquet, <br />A delicate cloud of bugle notes <br /> That softly say: <br />"Farewell! <br />Farewell! <br />Comrades true, born anew, peace to you! <br />Your souls shall be where the heroes are <br />And your memory shine like the morning-star. <br />Brave and dear, <br />Shield us here. <br />Farewell!"<br /><br />Alfred Joyce Kilmer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rouge-bouquet/
