When comes the dawn? Its unseen dew
Distils on folded swath and mound,
Where grass is deep or sods are new,
And branches shake without a sound;
Where, numberless and low and grey,
The furrows lessen to the sky;
There sleep the sons of England, they
Who died that England should not die.
Better—ah, better for us all,
For them who sleep and us who wake,