  Out of the line we rest in villages Quiet indeed, where heal the spirit’s scars; But even so, lapped deep in sunshine and ease, We are haunted for ever by the shapes of wars. Green in the sun they lie, secret, deserted, Lovely against the blue the summits show, Where once the bright steel sang, the red blood spurted, And brave men cowed their terrors long ago. By day their life was easy; but at night, Even now, one hears strange rustlings in the bush; And, straining tensely doubtful ear and sight, The stealthy moving ere the sudden rush; And flinches from the spear. War’s just-bright embers That Earth still keeps and treasures for the pride In sacrifice there shown; with love remembers The beauty and quick strength of men that died. Who died as we may die, for Freedom, beauty Of common living, calmly led in peace, Yet took the flinty road and hard of duty, Whose end was life abundant and increase. But—when Heaven’s gate wide opening receives us Victors and full of song, forgetting scars; Shall we see to stir old memories, to grieve us, Heaven’s never-yet-healed sores of Michael’s wars? |
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