The
Young Dead
We have a pledge with you
we may not break;
The fear and pain you
knew, the blood you shed,
Your shattered bodies,
cold and still and dead,
Are as a silent awful vow
we make
In honour’s name for
honour’s shining sake.
For us, your yielded
youth is gathered up
Like to the wine in God’s
uplifted cup,
Which kneeling at His
altar steps we take.
So we shall never suffer
wills grown cold,
Nor hold that falsehood differs
not from truth,
Nor tame our high desires
to lesser aims,
But dare the years with
youth’s imperious claims,
Since we shall have, yes,
even being old,
Still beating at our
hearts your unused youth.
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