Amidst the crosses, row on row,
I hear the tolling of the bells,
And faintly hear the bugles blow.
I watch the young and smiling faces
As they go passing by.
Who would not be living here today,
If others had not come to die.
As they walk here, unseeing,
In the land they know so well,
They do not hear the bugles,
Or the tolling of the bell.
They do not know the sacrifice,
Made that they might live,
By a young and frightened soldier,
With only a life to give.
I look upon the flowers,
And the wide expanse of lawn,
Upon the gentle peace of the hour,
And the lives that are going on.
And I pray it had a meaning,
That there was a final gain,
That the thousands 'neath the crosses,
Did not die in vain.
A cool breeze chills me
As it sweeps across the dell
I hear distant echoes of the bugle,
And the tolling of the bell.
Rest in peace, your job is done,
May this be the final knell,
Mournful taps upon the bugle,
As sorrowfully tolls the bell.
copr. 1989 - Trinka Powers
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Last update Saturday, September 20, 1997 by GypzyLady