1918
We are forgetting all the old grey saints,-
A bloom of dust lies on the martyrs' shrines;
From storied windows that the sunlight paints,
We rarely read the dear familiar lines;
They seem a part of things so far away,
These haloed ones-the saints of yesterday.

We are forgetting all the ancient lore
Of time-dimmed battles, with their unnamed dead;
All, all have vanished,-we will nevermore
In dreams unfurl their banners stained with red;
A tidal-wave has drifted them away
Into the limbo of Life's yesterday.

We are forgetting all the mighty men,-
The knights in clanking armor of the past;
We care not that by forest and by fen,
Their fighting done, they soundly slept at last;
They all belong to grief so far away;
The long and bitter tears of yesterday.

We are forgetting all the hours of peace,
The sweet sun-sprinkled hours of gold on green,-
The careless hours we thought could never cease,-
The merriest hours the world has ever seen.
They are so very, very far away,-
Those white untroubled hours of yesterday.

For Death goes to and fro upon the earth; -
It follows in the wake of marching men;
And we who knew the olden peace and mirth,
Will never, never know the same again.
The scented wind across the boughs of May,
Brings but the memory of some yesterday.