Alfred Gordon

“ We shall not sleep !
For, lo !
His word upon our inmost heart
Is graven more deeply than by all the art
Of him
Throughout all time
Lord of all rhyme,
As from the glories of a colonnade
Man turns, of old, to shrines in cloistral shade.
And youth shall kneel there
By this present shrine,
Learning a more divine
Than Proserpine.
While though his body shall in France find
rest.
Yea, the same rest France to her own brave
yields,
His soul shall stray,
By an infallible way,
Not through Elysian, but to Flanders' fields. ”