A Harrow Grave in Flanders

HERE in the marshland, past the battered bridge, One of a hundred grains untimely sown, Here, with his comrades of the hard-won ridge, He rests unknown.

His horoscope had seemed so plainly drawn,— School triumphs, earned apace in work and play; Friendships at will; then love's delightful dawn And mellowing day;

Home fostering hope; some service to the State; Benignant age; then the long tryst to keep Where in the yew-tree shadow congregate His fathers sleep.

Was here the one thing needful to distil From life's alembic, through this holier fate, The man's essential soul, the hero will? We ask; and wait.