A Dead Warrior
By Laurence Housman
Here sown to dust lies one that drave
The furrow through his heart;
Now, of the fields he died to save
His own dust forms a part.
Where went the tramp of martial feet,
The blare of trumpets loud,
Comes silence with her winding sheet,
And shadow with her shroud.
His mind no longer counsel takes,
No sword his hand need draw,
Across whose borders peace now makes
So, with distraction round him stilled,
Now let him be content!
And time from age to age shall build
His standing monument.
Not here, where strife, and greed, and lust
Grind up the bones of men;
But in that safe and secret dust
Which shall not rise again.