Ah, does he see, the dead boy lying there, The wealth of splendid wreaths surrounding him? One white rose would have seemed so fair, so fair, There in the bloody mire when life was dim, And all its hell grew more than he could bear. Ah, does he hear the splendid words of praise, The humble prayer, the proud sonority Of rounded sentences and polished phrase? He lies beneath his roses silently, As he has lain, untroubled many days. Around his bier the tramp of many feet, As sorrowing, the nation passes by -- But he was young, and life was keen and sweet. "Unknown" -- it was a lonely way to die, "Unknown" -- how pitiful an end to meet. There in his hour of final sacrifice Did he perhaps know something of this day? God grant he found the way where comfort lies, And smiled, as in his glorious death he lay, To glimpse through closing mists his mother's eyes! |