In wiser days, my darling rosebud, blown
To beauty proud as was your Mother’s prime.
In that desired, delayed, incredible time,
You’ll ask why I abandoned you, my own,
And the dear heart that was your baby throne,
To die with death. And oh! they’ll give you rhyme
And reason: some will call the thing sublime,
And some decry it in a knowing tone.
So here, while the mad guns curse overhead,
And tired men sigh with mud for couch and floor,
Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead,
Died not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor,
But for a dream, born in a herdsmen shed,
And for the secret Scripture of the poor.
LIne 6. die should read ' dice'
So sad - nothing about glory or heroics, just an attempt at an explanation of why he had returned to war, for a daughter he suspected he might not live to see again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
Line 6.. To die with death... should read To dice with death