II
From rain-filled trench, from bare and blood-soaked
ground,
Where in low piles the dead and dying lie—
(The mitrailleuse has swept each ridge and mound
Where Frenchmen rushed to conquer or to die)
They bring them to us—broken, crippled boys,
White as the linen bands around the head.
And some may live. To some life's hopes and joys
Are growing dim—unto the glorious dead
Their souls depart. Ah! God will speed them well.
These gallant men who for their country fell.