That One who sealed our symbol with His blood
Vouchsafed the vision that shall never leave us,
Those humble crosses in the Flanders mud;
And think there rests all-hallowed in each grave
A life given freely for the world He died to save.
And, ages hence, dim tramping generations
Who never knew and cannot guess our pain—
Though history count nothing less than nations,
And fame forget where grass has grown again—
Shall yet remember that the world is free.