WHEN the springtime mists are gray above the furrows, Where the trenches in the red lines erstwhile lay, And the dew is falling softly on the crosses, As the flowers lift their eager faces to the day— Then, amid the tangled fields and thickly matted brushwood, You will see a glowing beauty raise its shining head, Where the morning glories clamber on the fallen branches— Where the morning glories gleam red, white, and blue above our dead! As the dawning light disperses all the shadows, As the sunbeams cross the one-time fighting field, With a flashing of the noblest, truest colors, Here and there the royal brilliance shows revealed! Where our boys are sleeping underneath the verdure, Whence the beaten foe in terror long since fled, There the climbing flowers veil the silent mounds in grandeur— Where the morning glories gleam red, white, and blue above our dead! |