Who cherish, in the undying

The men we never can forget.

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 beads, behold The features, catch the whispered breath Of friends long garnered in the cold Unopening granaries of death,