They are embosomed in the sod, In still and tranquil leisure, Their lives they've cast like trifles down, To serve their country's pleasure. Nor bugle call, nor mother's voice, Nor moody mob's unreason, Shall break their solace and repose Through swiftly changing season. O graves of men who lived and died Afar from life's high pleasures, Fold them in tenderly and warm With manifold fond measures. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SEVEN ARTS by ROBERT FROST THE UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE by JAMES GALVIN ONE OF THE LEAST OF THESE, MY LITTLE ONE' by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO W.E.B. DUBOIS - SCHOLAR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A BANJO SONG by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON |