Methetic
A.S.W.

I strolled among the crosses,
And saw on either side,
Remembrance of the honoured,
The thousands who had died.

“In defence of self and country”,
I read upon the one
And much the same in meaning
On the cross that marked his son.

A curly-headed youngster
Knelt down in silent prayer,
With folded hands and whispered voice
He prayed “Amen” with care.

When he rose I bade good-bye to him,
And asked him why he prayed.
“That I might be spared the glory
the price my father paid.”

He waved a farewell as he went,
I watched him out of sight,
A sudden dream came to me
As I turned towards the right.

The crosses had been added to
A generation passed;
A new and bloody struggle
Was fought until the last.

I saw an awful vision
Where men rose up from hell,
In bloody sweat and labour
They fell at death’s deep knell.

They bore the scars of battle,
The marks some love, some feign,
Upon their blue and bloodless lips
The silence of the slain.

A tender face among that band,
It stared at me in awe;
‘Twas the happy, smiling youngster,
I had spoken to just before.

He looked at me with sorrow,
I know his every thought;
His visage bore the hardship
Of the battle he had fought.