ALTHOUGH they sleep in alien graves afar,
Where, restlessly, chill winds we know not roam,
When Peace has laid the cruel waves of war
They shall come home!
Their spirit cannot die, though they be dead,
The young, the brave, the noble, and the dear!
And we shall know by some sweet influence shed
That they are near.
Because of them we shall go unafraid
And front the Future, strong and valorous;
They shall come home, when most we need their aid,
And hearten us.
What soul we owned we knew not till they died;
Upon high nationhood they set the seal;
The crude ore taken from the mountainside
They wrought to steel.
What though they passed in all their pride and power
With steadfast tread adown the sunset-track
To Glory's gates? — in memory's hallowed hour
They shall come back.
And they shall give, in place of heart-distress,
To kith and kin, tear-worn and sorrowing sore,
A sense of reverence and of sacredness
Not known before.
What though they sleep in unfamiliar earth,
Where, restlessly, chill winds we know not roam,
To stir our blood to deeds of starry worth
They shall come home!