On his pale pure face not a mark of pain,
(His mother dreams that they will meet again),
The fairest form amid all the slain,
Like a child asleep he nestled.
In the solemn shade of the wood that swept
The field where his comrades found him,
They buried him there—and the big tears crept
Into strong men’s eyes that had seldom wept,
(His mother—God pity her—smiled and slept,
Dreaming her arms were around him).