Deep, deep the sleep of heroes laid to rest
In hollows watered by their youthful blood.
Deep, deep the silence on the smoking plain
Where horse and rider will not rise again.
Deep, deep the ploughshare’s furrow like a wound
Across their common grave in fallow ground.
Deep, deep the yellow of the ripened corn
Which falls before the reaper’s scythe at dawn.
Deep, deep the snow whose icy funeral pall
Bedecks the dead and slowly covers all.
When evening light the garden fills
And shadows fall across the lawn
Beneath the oak,
Down the long path
With trug of windfalls
And a bunch of mint,
I see you coming,
Smiling, to greet us.
Where are you now, dear hearts, from what far bourne
Do you survey the lives of those who mourn?
Too soon, in quick succession through the night,
Your tired spirits took their final flight,
So stars in Autumn shoot across the sky
And in one moment fall to earth and die.
But on your journey, loving, brave, upright,
You shared with us the burning of your light.
For Granny and Bumpah
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