Young are our dead br Like babies they lie br The wombs they blest once br Not healed dry br And yet - too soon br Into each space br A cold earth falls br On colder face. br Quite still they lie br These fresh-cut reeds br Clutched in earth br Like winter seeds br But they will not bloom br When called by spring br To burst with leaf br And blossoming br They sleep on br In silent dust br As crosses rot br And helmets rust.