| OCR Text |
Show ! They Speak Our Dead We love the ripple of the grass And zephyr-whispers as they pass A tip-toe in the tossing trees That dance and sway in playful breeze. We love gay blossoms that men bring And smile to hear glad bird-songs ring, For grass and birds and flowers are true As patient hills and skies of blue. But when men come to visit here With roaring gun and trumpeter, And boast about the love they beai To that dear flag, with bugle's blars We tremble. Words are nothing-empty nothing-empty sound Unless stout hearts and sacred ground Give them their weight. The war torn earth To calm-eyed peace cannot give birth Unless the men who speak today Will give their lives for what they say. So many talk! Their words are loud They move to tears the waiting crowd, But we, the Dead, their souls can see Too small to succor Liberty! So often when their words run high Their souls are giving them the He! We don't like guns, the blare ot brass Just let us have the peace of grass And trees and birds wide skies oi blue, And silence! These are true. Harrison R. Merrill "Poet Lariat" |
