Oh quiet peoples sleeping bed by bed

Beneath grey roof-trees in the glimmering West,

We who can see the silver grey and red

Rise over No Man’s Land—salute your rest.

Oh quiet comrades, sleeping in the clay

Beneath a turmoil you need no more mark,

We who have lived through yet another day

Salute your graves at setting in of dark.

And rising from your beds or from the clay

You, dead, or far from lines of slain and slayers,

Thro’ your eternal or your finite day

Give us your prayers!