That men in armour may be born With serpents’ teeth the field is sown; Rains mould, winds bend, suns gild the corn Too quickly ripe, too early mown. I scan the quivering heads, behold The features, catch the whispered breath Of friends long garnered in the cold Unopening granaries of death, Whose names in solemn cadence ring Across my slow oblivious page. Their friendship was a finer thing Than fame, or wealth, or honoured age, And—while you live and I—shall last Its tale of seasons with us yet Who cherish, in the undying past, The men we never can.
