- There’s music in the measured tread
- Of those returning from the dead
- Like scattered flowers from a plain
So lately crimson, with the slain.
- No more the sound of shuffled feet
- Shall mark the poltroon on the street,
- Nor shifting, sodden, downcast eye
Reveal the man afraid to die.
- They shall have paid full, utterly
- The price of peace across the sea,
- When, with uplifted glance, they come
To claim a kindly welcome home.
- Nor shall the old-time daedal sting
- Of prejudice, their manhood wing.
- Nor heights, nor depths, nor living streams
- Stand in the pathway of their dreams!