Memorial Day

The finest tribute we can pay
Unto our hero dead to-day,
Is not a rose wreath, white and red,
In memory of the blood they shed;
It is to stand beside each mound,
Each couch of consecrated ground,
And pledge ourselves as warriors true
Unto the work they died to do.

    Into God’s valleys where they lie
    At rest, beneath the open sky,
    Triumphant now, o’er every foe,
    As living tributes let us go. 
    No wreath of rose or immortelles
    Or spoken word or tolling bells
    Will do to-day, unless we give
    Our pledge that liberty shall live.

    Our hearts must be the roses red
    We place above our hero dead;
    To-day beside their graves we must
    Renew allegiance to their trust;
    Must bare our heads and humbly say
    We hold the Flag as dear as they,
    And stand, as once they stood, to die
    To keep the Stars and Stripes on high.

    The finest tribute we can pay
    Unto our hero dead to-day
    Is not of speech or roses red,
    But living, throbbing hearts instead
    That shall renew the pledge they sealed
    With death upon the battlefield: 
    That freedom’s flag shall bear no stain
    And free men wear no tyrant’s chain.

         The Soldier on Crutches

He came down the stairs on the laughter-filled grill
Where patriots were eating and drinking their fill,
The tap of his crutch on the marble of white
Caught my ear as I sat all alone there that night. 
I turned—­and a soldier my eyes fell upon,
He had fought for his country, and one leg was gone!

As he entered a silence fell over the place;
Every eye in the room was turned up to his face. 
His head was up high and his eyes seemed aflame
With a wonderful light, and he laughed as he came. 
He was young—­not yet thirty—­yet never he made
One sign of regret for the price he had paid.

    One moment before this young soldier came in
    I had caught bits of speech in the clatter and din
    From the fine men about me in life’s dress parade
    Who were boasting the cash sacrifices they’d made;
    And I’d thought of my own paltry service with pride,
    When I turned and that hero of battle I spied.

I shall never forget the hot flushes of shame
That rushed to my cheeks as that young fellow came. 
He was cheerful and smiling and clear-eyed and fine
And out of his face golden light seemed to shine. 
And I thought as he passed me on crutches: 
“How small
Are the gifts that I make if I don’t give my all.”

Some day in the future in many a place
More soldiers just like him we’ll all have to face. 
We must sit with them, talk with them, laugh with them, too,
With the signs of their service forever in view
And this was my thought as I looked at him then
—­Oh, God! make me worthy to stand with such men.