To K. S. S.
That men in armour may be born
With serpents’ teeth the field is sown;
Rains mould, winds bend, suns gild the corn
Too quickly ripe, too early mown.
I scan the quivering heads, behold
The features, catch the whispered breath
Of friends long garnered in the cold
Unopening granaries of death,
Whose names in solemn cadence ring
Across my slow oblivious page.
Their friendship was a finer thing
Than fame, or wealth, or honoured age,
And — while you live and I— shall last
Its tale of seasons with us yet
Who cherish, in the undying past,
The men we never can forget.
Bad Kissingen, C. K. S. M. July 31, 1923.
Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:59