Did you think they lie forgotten, my friend?
Did you think your dead lie lost in the weeds,
That none of us harvest the poppy seeds
Or scrub the crosses that marked their end?
Not so— not so. Though babblers spout
Of johnies-come-lately, our gardeners tend
Their resting places, and bugles defend
The heroes you sent in their last redoubt.
Nor shall we forget, neither yours nor ours,
The perils they braved, the battles they fought,
In a war that neither our countries sought
Through perilous years and perilous hours.
Here they lie mingled, scattered and shot;
But never believe that they lie forgot.