For the Fallen
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.
On the road to Ypres, on the long road,
We'll sing a song of Ypres, of her glory
And her wrong.
Proud rose her towers in the old time,
Trees stood on her ramparts, and the water
Shattered are the towers into potsherds--
Underneath the ashes that were rafters
Blood is in the cellar where the wine was,
On the floor.
Rats run on the pavement where the wives met
At the door.
But in Ypres there's an army that is biding,
Seen of none.
You'd never hear their tramp nor see their shadow
In the sun.
Thousands of the dead men there are waiting
Through the night,
Waiting for a bugle in the cold dawn
Blown for fight.
Listen when the bugle's calling Forward!
They'll be found,
Dead men, risen in battalions
Charging with us home, and through the foemen
Swifter than the madness in a madman,
As they hear
Dead men ring the bells of Ypres
For a sign,
Hear the bells and fear them in the Hunland