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From: See link; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rouge_Bouquet_%28poem%29ROUGE BOUQUET
By Joyce Kilmer
In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet
There is a new-made grave to-day,
Built by never a spade nor pick
Yet covered with earth ten metres thick.
There lie many fighting men,
Dead in their youthful prime,
Never to laugh nor love again
Nor taste the Summertime.
For Death came flying through the air
And stopped his flight at the dugout stair,
Touched his prey and left them there,
Clay to clay.
He hid their bodies stealthily
In the soil of the land they fought to free
And fled away.
Now over the grave abrupt and clear
Three volleys ring;
And perhaps their brave young spirits hear
The bugle sing:
“Go to sleep!
Go to sleep!
Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell.
Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor,
You will not need them any more.
Danger’s past;
Now at last,
Go to sleep!”
There is on earth no worthier grave
To hold the bodies of the brave
Than this place of pain and pride
Where they nobly fought and nobly died.
Never fear but in the skies
Saints and angels stand
Smiling with their holy eyes
On this new-come band.
St. Michael’s sword darts through the air
And touches the aureole on his hair
As he sees them stand saluting there,
His stalwart sons;
And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill
Rejoice that in veins of warriors still
The Gael’s blood runs.
And up to Heaven’s doorway floats,
From the wood called Rouge Bouquet
A delicate cloud of buglenotes
That softly say:
“Farewell!
Farewell!
Comrades true, born anew, peace to you!
Your souls shall be where the heroes are
And your memory shine like the morning-star.
Brave and dear,
Shield us here.
Farewell!”
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SOLDIER FROM KANSAS
Postby jim turner » Thu Nov 11, 2010 12:03 pm
Grant me this leave. Let me play
my part where my helmet is hung
on my piece--well out of your way. *
Have no word spoken, no song sung.
I would not hear. See? I ignore
red fury; hot, metallic rain;
my shaken bed; the battle's score.
I will neither move nor explain.
Once, on your strange world, I stood tall
for one who weeps to have me found.
Quiet her far, importunate call
with a clod of this callous ground.
Let me sleep! Her Kansan tears fall
in Oz, with an alien sound. **
Jim about 2000
*Piece is military for rifle; shallow graves have often been so marked–by a now useless helmet hung on the butt of a rifle, bayoneted into the ground.
**My personal imagining, that if the dead do see this world it would be to them strange and meaningless.
jim turner
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