Where the maimed fields stretch eloquent and dumb, Where once was thunder and the blare of pain, Across the ruins, and the quiet slain Silence at last has come.
Silence, that washes, as a stealing tide Washes across the margin of the sea, Across those level tracts of agony Whers the world's flower has died.
Now from unfathomed silence wells a voice, A voice of shouting, laughter, broken prayer, A peal of bells upon the shaken air, A people that rejoice!
And dimly, while the bugles blow, there creeps A faint, small sound, half lost among the cheers, That finds no healing in' the healing years, A woman's voice that weeps.
Karuring WINSTANLEY.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.