For oh! when the war will be over,
We'll go and we'll look for our dead;
We'll go when the bee's on the clover,
And the plume of the poppy is red;
We'll go when the year's at its gayest,
When meadows are laughing with flowers;
And there where the crosses are grayest,
We'll seek for the cross that is ours.
For they cry to us: _Friends, we are lonely,
A-weary the night and the day;
But come in the blossom-time only,
Come when our graves will be gay:
When daffodils all are a-blowing,
And larks are a-thrilling the skies,
Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing,
And the joy of the Spring in your eyes._
_But never, oh! never come sighing,
For ours was the Splendid Release;
And oh! but 'twas joy in the dying
To know we were winning you Peace.
So come when the valleys are sheening,
And fledged with the promise of grain;
And here where our graves will be greening,
Just smile and be happy again._
And so when the war will be over,
We'll seek for the Wonderful One;
And maiden will look for her lover,
And mother will look for her son;
And there will be end to our grieving,
And gladness will gleam over loss,
As--glory beyond all believing!--
We point . . . to a name on a cross.
ROBERT W. SERVICE
_From "Rhymes of a Red Cross Man"--By
permission of William Briggs, Toronto_