To those who come not, who "though dead yet speak"
A lesson to be guarded in our souls
While the land lives for whose dear sake they died—
Whose lives, thrice sacred, are the price of peace,
Whose memory, thrice belovëd, thrice revered,
Shall be their country's heritage, to hold
Eternal pattern to her living sons—
What dare we bring? They, dying, have won all.
A drooping flag, a flower upon their graves,
Are all the tribute left,—already theirs