We'll go and we'll look for our dead;
We'll go when the bee's on the clover,
And the plume of the poppy is red;
We'll go when the year's at its gayest,
When meadows are laughing with flowers;
And there where the crosses are grayest,
We'll seek for the cross that is ours.
For they cry to us: Friends, we are lonely,
A-weary the night and the day;
But come in the blossom-time only,