  For oh! when the war will be over, We'll go and we'll look for our dead; We'll go when the bee's on the clover, And the plume of the poppy is red; We'll go when the year's at its gayest, When meadows are laughing with flowers; And there where the crosses are grayest, We'll seek for the cross that is ours. For they cry to us: Friends, we are lonely, A-weary the night and the day; But come in the blossom-time only, Come when our graves will be gay: When daffodils all are a-blowing, And larks are a-thrilling the skies, Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing, And the joy of the Spring in your eyes. But never, oh! never come sighing, For ours was the Splendid Release; And oh! but 'twas joy in the dying To know we were winning you Peace. So come when the valleys are sheening, And fledged with the promise of grain; And here where our graves will be greening, And so when the war will be over, We'll seek for the Wonderful One; And maiden will look for her lover, And mother will look for her son; And there will be end to our grieving, And gladness will gleam over loss, As—glory beyond all believing!— We point . . . to a name on a cross. Robert W. Service From "Rhymes of a Red Cross Man"—By permission of William Briggs, Toronto |
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