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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355396" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Cenotaph</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not yet will those measureless fields be green again<br>Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed;<br>There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deep a stain,<br>Though for ever over it we may speak as proudly as we may tread.<br>But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrust of an inward sword have more slowly bled,<br>We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, winged too, at the column’s head.<br>And over the stairway, at the foot—oh! here, leave desolate, passionate hands to spread<br>Violets, roses, and laurel, with the small, sweet, tinkling country things<br>Speaking so wistfully of other Springs,<br>From the little gardens of little places where son or sweetheart was born and bred.<br>In splendid sleep, with a thousand brothers<br>To lovers—to mothers<br>Here, too, lies he:<br>Under the purple, the green, the red,<br>It is all young life: it must break some women's hearts to see<br>Such a brave, gay coverlet to such a bed!<br>Only, when all is done and said,<br>God is not mocked and neither are the dead<br>For this will stand in our Marketplace—<br>Who’ll sell, who’ll buy<br>(Will you or I<br>Lie each to each with the better grace)?<br>While looking into every busy whore's and huckster's face<br>As they drive their bargains, is the Face<br>Of God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charlotte+Mary+Mew">Charlotte Mary Mew</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355396" data-title="The Cenotaph de Charlotte Mary Mew" data-description="Not yet will those measureless fields be green again
Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed;
There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deep a stain,
Though for ever over it we may speak as proudly as we ma..."></div>
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