Shapes of Clay

Slain as they lay by the secret, slow,

Pitiless hand of an unseen foe,

Two score thousand old soldiers have crossed

The river to join the loved and lost.

In the space of a year their spirits fled,

Silent and white, to the camp of the dead.

One after one, they fall asleep

And the pension agents awake to weep,

And orphaned statesmen are loud in their wail

As the souls flit by on the evening gale.

O Father of Battles, pray give us release

From the horrors of peace, the horrors of peace!