  Once in a Belgian garden, (Ah, many months ago!) I saw, like pale Madonnas, Great poplars swayed and trembled Afar against the sky, And green with flags and rushes, The river wandered by. Amid the waving wheat-fields Glowed poppies blazing red, And showering strange wild music A lark rose overhead. . . . . . . The lark has ceased his singing, The wheat is trodden low, And in the blood-stained garden No more the lilies blow. And where green poplars trembled Stand shattered trunks instead, And lines of small white crosses Keep guard above the dead. For here brave lads and noble, From lands beyond the deep, Beneath the small white crosses Have laid them down to sleep. They laid them down with gladness Upon the alien plain, That this same Belgian garden Might bud and bloom again. F. O. Call By permission of the Author |
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