« ΠροηγούμενηΣυνέχεια »
O bugles, ripple and shine
Ripple and rapture down the wavering line.
Praise! Praise! Praise!
For the last of the desperate days.
Shake out the lyrical notes
From your cavernous silvern throats:
Burst into joy-mad carols once again
To herald the homing men.
O bugles, tell it to the opening sky,
And go the roads of men with joyous cry.
Peace on the wreathed and the wreathless head
Peace over England, over Africa
Peace on the living, quiet on the dead—
Peace on the souls hurled downward from the day,
Hurled down with bated breath,
To join the old democracy of Death.