GOLDEN through the golden morning, Who is this that comes With the pride of banners lifted, With the roll of drums? With the self-same triumph shining In the ardent glance, That divine, bright fate defiance That you bore to France. You! But o'er your grave in Flanders Blow the winter gales; Still for sorrow of your going All life's laughter fails. Borne on flutes of dawn the answer: "O'er the foam's white track, God's work done, so to our homeland Comes her hosting back. "Come the dead men with the live men From the marshes far, From the mounds in no man's valley, Lit by cross nor star. "Come to blend with hers the essence Of their strength and pride, All the radiance of the dreaming For whose truth they died." So the dead men with the live men Pass, an hosting fair, And the stone is rolled forever From the soul's despair. |