Oh quiet peoples sleeping bed by bed
Beneath grey roof-trees in the glimmering West,
We who can see the silver grey and red
Rise over No Man’s Land—salute your rest.
Oh quiet comrades, sleeping in the clay
Beneath a turmoil you need no more mark,
We who have lived through yet another day
Salute your graves at setting in of dark.
And rising from your beds or from the clay
You, dead, or far from lines of slain and slayers,
Thro’ your eternal or your finite day
Give us your prayers!
This poem is in the public domain.