These to the mourners of the War,
Saints of the great days, still and calm,
Who carry affliction like a star,
Who for your wounds have found a balm.
Who all so sweetly comfort take,
Who have no plaint for wound or stripe,
Who in the arid day will slake
Your thirst at a small conduit pipe.
Who praise your God although He slay,
Who are uplifted from the deep.
We know you in a murky day
By the sad glorious air you keep.
Your tears are only for God's eyes,
Your cries are for the heart of God.
What strange foretaste of Paradise
Tells secrets as you walk abroad!
For you, for you, unknown and dear,
My bundle of woundwort's plucked again
In this most glorious day and year
That gives your man to die for men.
