OVER the down the road goes winding,
A ribbon of white in the corn—
The green, young corn. O, the joy of binding
The sheaves some harvest morn!
But we are called to another reaping,
A harvest that will not wait.
The sheaves will be green. O, the world of weeping
Of those without the gate!
For the road we go they may not travel.
Nor share our harvesting;
But watch and weep. O, to unravel
The riddle of this thing!
Yet over the down the white road leading
Calls; and who lags behind?
Stout are our hearts; but O, the bleeding
Of hearts we may not bind!
SOMME, July, 1916.
