Whenever I walk through God's Acres of Dead
I wonder how often the mute voices said:
"I will do a kind deed or will lighten a sorrow
Or rise to a sacrifice splendid—to-morrow."
I wonder how many fine thoughts unexpressed
Were lost to the world when they went to their rest;
I wonder what beautiful deeds they'd have done
If they had but witnessed to-morrow's bright sun.
Oh, if the dead grieve, it is not for their fate,
For death comes to all of us early or late,
But their sighs of regret and their burdens of sorrow
Are born of the joys they'd have scattered to-morrow.
Do the friends they'd have cheered know the thoughts of the dead?
Do they treasure to-day the last words that were said?
What mem'ries would sweeten, what hearts cease to burn,
If but for a day the dead friends could return!
We know not the hour that our summons shall come;
We know not the time that our voice shall be dumb,
Yet even as they, to our ultimate sorrow,
We leave much that's fine for that doubtful to-morrow.
Tommy Atkins' Way
He was battle-scarred and ugly with the marks of shot and shell,
And we knew that British Tommy had a stirring tale to tell,
So we asked him where he got it and what disarranged his face,
And he answered, blushing scarlet: "In a nawsty little place."
There were medals on his jacket, but he wouldn't tell us why.
"A bit lucky, gettin' this one," was the sum of his reply.
He had fought a horde of Prussians with his back against the wall,
And he told us, when we questioned: "H'it was nothing arfter h'all."
Not a word of what he'd suffered, not a word of what he'd seen,
Not a word about the fury of the hell through which he'd been.
All he said was: "When you're cornered, h'and you've got no plyce to go,
You've just got to stand up to it! You cawn't 'elp yourself, you know.