On the road to Ypres, on the long road, <br />Marching strong, <br />We'll sing a song of Ypres, of her glory <br />And her wrong. <br /> <br />Proud rose her towers in the old time, <br />Long ago. <br />Trees stood on her ramparts, and the water <br />Lay below. <br /> <br />Shattered are the towers into potsherds-- <br />Jumbled stones. <br />Underneath the ashes that were rafters <br />Whiten bones. <br /> <br />Blood is in the cellar where the wine was, <br />On the floor. <br />Rats run on the pavement where the wives met <br />At the door. <br /> <br />But in Ypres there's an army that is biding, <br />Seen of none. <br />You'd never hear their tramp nor see their shadow <br />In the sun. <br /> <br />Thousands of the dead men there are waiting <br />Through the night, <br />Waiting for a bugle in the cold dawn <br />Blown for fight. <br /> <br />Listen when the bugle's calling Forward! <br />They'll be found, <br />Dead men, risen in battalions <br />From underground, <br /> <br />Charging with us home, and through the foemen <br />Driving fear <br />Swifter than the madness in a madman, <br />As they hear <br /> <br />Dead men ring the bells of Ypres <br />For a sign, <br />Hear the bells and fear them in the Hunland <br />Over Rhine!<br /><br />Robert Laurence Binyon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ypres-2/
