By Vera Brittain
They'll steal across the darkened quads tonight,
And clasp each other by the hand, and use
The old endearing names, and talk of days
Before the stormy time, when battle's blaze
Called them to leave the haunts of golden years,
And idly dreaming Muse.
They'll flit unseen amid the shadows grey
Beneath some ivied window once their own,
Whereof they dreamed on summer days in France,
When wistful eyes before the great advance,
Knowing in death that other hands would reap
The harvest that they had sown.
Their day has passed, but they shall never pass;
They stand behind our urgent stream of life
Half-smiling and half-sad; the chapel hymn
Thrills with a deeper undertone, the dim
half-realised whisper of their War-won peace
Beyond our lesser strife.
Courtesy of Barry Cuttell