Poem: “Rouge Bouquet” by Joyce Kilmer

In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet
There is a new man-made grave to-day,
Built by never a spade nor pick
Yet covered with earth ten meters thick.
There lie many fighting men,
Dead in their youthful prime,
Never to laugh or love again
Nor taste the Summertime.
For Death came flying through the air
And stopped his flight at the dugout stair,
Clay to clay.

He hid their bodies stealthily
In the soil of the land they fought to free
And fled away.
Now over the grave abrupt and clear
Three volleys ring;
And perhaps their brave young spirits hear
The bugle sing:
“Go to sleep!
Go to sleep!

Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell,
Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor,
You will not need them any more.”
There is on earth no worthier grave
To hold the bodies of the brave
Than this place of pain and pride
Where they nobly fought and nobly died.
Never fear but in the skies
Saints and angels stand
Smiling with their holy eyes
On this new-come band.

St. Michael’s sword darts through the air
And touches the aureole on his hair
As he sees them stand saluting there,
His stalwart sons;
And Patrick, Brigid, Columbkille
Rejoice that in veins of warriors still
The Gael’s blood runs.
And up to Heaven’s doorway floats,
From the wood called Rouge Bouquet,
A delicate cloud of bugle notes
That softly say:
“Farewell!
Farewell!

Comrades true, born anew, peace to you!
And your memory shine like the morning star.
Brave and dear,
Shield us here,
Farewell!”