Lilian Bowes Lyon

Battlefield

Men in their prime,
Boys venerably young.
With all-unfaded brows, died here upon a time;
So heavy a wrong—
How may this black world right who trod them into slime?
 
Still must pour milder suns,
Splintering the stained glass window of a wood,
Be darkly seen through these men’s blood
And midnight mutter in her sleep with guns.
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