The Cenotaph

Not yet will those measureless fields be green againWhere only yesterday the wild, sweet, blood of wonderful youthwas shed;There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deepa stain,Though for ever over it we may speak as proudly as we may tread.But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrustof an inward sword have more slowly bled,We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, wingedtoo, at the column’s head.And over the stairway, at the foot--oh! here, leave desolate,passionate hands to spreadViolets, roses, and laurel, with the small, sweet, twinklingcountry thingsSpeaking so wistfully of other Springs,From the little gardens of little places where son or sweetheartwas born and bred.In splendid sleep, with a thousand brothersTo lovers--to mothersHere, too, lies he:Under the purple, the green, the red,It is all young life: it must break some women’s hearts to seeSuch a brave, gay coverlet to such a bed!Only, when all is done and said,God is not mocked and neither are the dead.

For this will stand in our Market-place--Who’ll sell, who’ll buy(Will you or ILie each to each with the better grace)?While looking into every busy whore’s and huckster’s faceAs they drive their bargains, is the FaceOf God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.