But the little wooden crosses You have given the peaceful dead, O the little wooden crosses, By each young low-lying head,-- Though the tender grasses hide them, Or they fall beneath the snows, Not a cross shall be forgotten,-- God Himself has counted those. THE CRY They have laid him away; Even he who was always so strong and gay Will be locked in the earth till the judgment day; "Dust unto dust" I have heard the priest say. He will never return; Though I weep my eyes blind, though I pray and yearn,-- Though the star-light goes out and the great suns burn Into whitest ash,--he will never return. So of weeping--no more; It is tears fill the oceans from shore to shore; They have made the wind salt--the wind at my door; They harm the good ground--so of weeping--no more. "Not again!" "Not again!" Do you hear the sea singing that one refrain? The pine trees, the wind and the wearysome rain All whisper it; "Never again!"--"Not again!" Who can tell me--who knows, Where his lonely soul travels? Whither it goes?-- Has he gone like the leaves?--Like yesterday's snows?-- Speak, dear Lord of Death! You who died--and arose! A WAR CHANT O England! Thy foe hath hated thee long, And his hate is a deadly thing; It was held in his heart till its growth was strong, Now, words have woven it into a song For little children to sing. It is hatred that fashioned his shot and shell, And hatred hid death in the sea; In hatred the cannon have sounded a knell O'er the little homes where the peaceful dwell, And the humble-hearted be. Thy foe hath swept the blue from the sky In a fury of smoke and flame; His guns are not stilled where the wounded lie,-- He hath shown no pity to those who die For the glory of his name. He sealed his hate with the blood of his men-- O, the young in their coats of grey!-- They are cast aside, and in river, and fen, Deep-hidden, where none will find them again Till the last white judgment day. Now mirth is forgotten and joy is dead; The world hath accepted its pain; Still, over old battlefields, newly red, The shattered ranks of his army are led In pomp and a high disdain. Thy anger grows slowly, for thou art great, O England! thou well beloved land; When its tide is full-risen, then thou art Fate,-- And the angel who stands before the gate, The sword of flame in his hand! WHEN JONQUILS BLOW When jonquils blow I think of one Who sleeps beneath the green; And all the light and song of life And all the golden sheen Turn cold and still before my eyes, While pearl-edged boughs of May Seen through a sudden mist of tears Are rimmed with ashen-gray. TO ONE WHO SLEEPS Fare not too far, my own, Down ways all strange and new, For I must find alone, The road that leads to you.