Where the high grass covered her poor dead men.

The water meadows shone rich with gold,

Gold that the buttercups had sold

To the nibbling sheep of the red ring-fold.

And even the river murmured rest

As the sun sank low in the tender west,

And the earth flowers slept on their mother's breast.

Over the valley that seemed so still,

Where the blackbird whistled his love-notes shrill

I gazed, and all against my will

I saw a vision beneath the hill.

Centuries passed like a mist away

And I stood in the glare of a burning day

Whilst the church-bells clamoured a call to pray.[Pg 31]

[Pg 31]

War and its brother raced hand in hand,

That brother called Death; and they seared the land

With their fiery breath and the murder brand.

And copses and dales were bleeding red,

Naught was sacred, the living or dead,

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