And beards of wintry gray,

And they digged a grave in the yellow soil,

And they crooned this song as they plied their toil,

In the fading light of day:

Hither ye bring your workmen,

Like tools that are broken and bent,

To pay your due to their cunning

After their skill is spent;

Hither ye bring them and lay them,

And go when your prayers are said,

Back where the stress of your living

Makes mock of the peace of your dead.

From the iron-paved roads of traffic,

From the shell-scarred fields of war,

From the lands of earth's burning girdle

To the snows of her uttermost star,

Ye bring in your sons and daughters

From the glare and the din of today,

Giving them back unto silence,

And sealing their lips with clay.

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