  The stars are shining bright above the camps, The bugle calls float skyward, faintly clear; Over the hill the mist-veiled motor lamps Dwindle and disappear. The notes of day’s good-bye arise and blend With the low murmurous hum from tree and sod, And swell into that question at the end They ask each night of God— Whether the dead within the burial ground Will ever overthrow their crosses grey, And rise triumphant from each lowly mound To greet the dawning day. Whether the eyes which battle sealed in sleep Will open to reveillÉ once again, And forms, once mangled, into rapture leap, Forgetful of their pain. But still the stars above the camp shine on, Giving no answer for our sorrow’s ease, And one more day with the Last Post has gone Dying upon the breeze. Étaples, 1918. |
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