The Dead
By Archibald Nigel Guy Irving
Passchendaele, 1919
Tread
softly lest your feet disturb the dead
From
their long sleep, and make them think once more
Of
the green earth and blue sky overhead,
Or
the wild waters breaking on the shore
Of
some lone cove which once in life they knew
And
loved, and left to pass into the fire.
Speak
lightly, lest your voices, breaking through
Their
age-long rest, shall wake them to desire.
Walk
reverently. You tread on holy ground;
The
ground from which the tender flowers start,
And
raise their heads to heaven from the mound.
They
draw their life from some dead hero’s heart.
The
strain of war is fading from the land.
Where
once was tumbled earth is growing grass.
The
crimson poppies bloom on every hand.
Ah!
Step between the flowers as you pass.
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