England's woods are green to-day;
Every day and all day long
In among the trees do stray
The birds' song and the winds' song.

Last year's leaves beneath our feet
Light do sigh and soft do stir,
As if they kept remembrance sweet
Of young dead lovers walking there . . . .

In Flanders' woods on hurrying wings
Every day and all day long
The seeking bullet flies and sings
Thin and shrill its bridal song.

All the summer leaves are brown,
And all the boughs of summer bare;
And many a gallant lad lies down
With glory for his sweetheart there.