The Wood's Sorrow.

In random patches through the wood,
Some clumps of yellow primrose stood,
And several white anemones,
Like driven snow against the trees,
Had covered up the violet,
And left the blue-bells bluer yet.

Along the narrow carpet ride,
With primroses on either side,
Between the shadows and the sun,
The men came slowly, one by one,
Breathing the early morning air,
And leaving it still sweeter there.

And, one by one, intent upon,
Their purposes, they followed on,
In ordered silence, then they were gone.

But all the little wood was still,
As if waiting just until,
A blackbird in the daylight flew,
Watching the gory battle through,
Opened his yellow beak at last,
To whistle that the men had passed,
Then all the wood began to sing,
For all the dead men listening.