The Wraiths by Edythe C. Toner

Hosts of the martyred dead!
In dreams I see them pass—
Pale, wistful shadows
In their march
Upon the soundless grass.
And gleaming with the lustre
Of a star strewn sky,
I see long rows
Of glistening stones
Which mark the place of rest
Of these
Who now pass by!

I hear no sound of music
But a muffled drum
Beating a slow retreat. …
A bugle in the distance
Calling: “Come!”
And back in the void they go,
These sad, reproachful young
And silent wraiths.

Then: From out the cool-gray depths
Of darkling forest glen
Which held these lads
Within its drear retreat
I hear a cry!
Ceaseless … Moaning … Wavering
… As the eternal billows’ hollow beat
Upon the shore which bounds
The longing Sea
From out the melancholy distance
Floating … Echoing … Sighing
… Back to me!
“Why … Why … Why …
Should we who were so young
And so in love with life,
Thus die … Thus die?”