Here where the end of bone is no end of song And the earth is bedecked with immortality In what was poetry And now is pride beside And nationality, Here is a battle with no bravery But if the coward’s tongue has gone Swording his own lusty lung. Listen if there is victory Written into a library Waving the books in banners Soldierly at last, for the lines Go marching on, delivered of the soul. And happily may they rest beyond Suspicion now, the incomprehensibles Traitorous in such talking As chattered over their countries’ boundaries. The graves are gardened and the whispering Stops at the hedges, there is singing Of it in the ranks, there is a hush Where the ground has limits And the rest is loveliness. And loveliness? Death has an understanding of it Loyal to many flags And is a silent ally of any country Beset in its mortal heart With immortal poetry.
— Laura (Riding) Jackson