Ruins of trees whose woeful arms
Vainly invoke the sombre sky
Stripped, twisted boughs and tortured boles,
Like lost souls
How green they grew on the little farms!

Ruins of stricken wall and spire,
Stretched mile on desolate mile along
Ghosts of a life of sweet intent,
Riven and rent
By frantic shell and searching fire.

Ruins of soldiers torn and slain,
Boyish bodies broken for you;
Burned in their hearts the battle cry!
Lifeless they lie,
Clay crumbling slow to clay again.