The cross is twined with gossamer,
The cross some hand has shaped with care,
But by his grave the grasses stir
And he is silent, sleeping there.
The guns are loud; he hears them not:
The night goes by; he does not know:
A lone white cross stands on the spot
And tells of one who sleeps below.
The brooding night is hushed and still,
The crooning breeze draws quiet breath: