Mobilized

The wind amongst the trees,
Sunsets, the dawn and flowers—
I'd like to sing of these—
But they are dead.
They lived in sight and mind
Of those who loved them;
Now men's eyes are blind
Or turned away.
Others in happier years,
In peace for which we sought,
May shed delicious tears
For lovers' fates.
But we who wait for spring,
Fighting in winter's snows.
Grimly our songs we fling
As hand-grenades.

H.W.

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