Swords held high—
And the bugles sadly sighing—
Bid good-bye
To the dead.
Cap with sprig of green-leaf lying
At their head.

Softer, softer
The murmur grows.
One last duty—let us honor
Those whose duty claimed—their souls.
All—is calm.
—At-ten-shun! Pre-sent arms!

Those three caps.
Bugles blow.
My heart stops.
—What, and no
Sword? —and no
Epaulets?
In the morning laid to rest
In a hole without a name?

The bugles cease now.
Rest in peace now-
Valiant host,
Torn to pieces—at your post!

17 July 1917