To our Dead

SLEEP well, heroic souls, in silence sleep, Lapped in the circling arms of kindly death! No ill can vex your slumbers, no foul breath Of slander, hate, derision mar the deep Repose that holds you close. Your kinsmen reap The harvest you have sown, while each man saith: "So would I choose, when danger threateneth, Let my death be as theirs." We dare not weep.