where we are in these days. A bit of us is always with our men on our
many fields of war. We live partly in France and Flanders, in Italy,
in the Balkans, in Egypt and Palestine and Mesopotamia, in Africa,
with the lonely white crosses in Gallipoli, with our men who guard us
sleeping and waking, going down to the sea in ships and under the sea,
fighting death in submarines and mines, and with those who in the air
are the eyes and the winged cavalry of our forces.

We mourn our dead, not sadly and hopelessly, though life for many of
us is emptier forever, and for many so much harder, and we wear very
little mourning. We mourn silently, and with a sure faith that our
men's supreme sacrifice is not in vain. "Greater love hath no man
than this, that he lay down his life for his friend." The little white
crosses of our graves symbolize the faith for which they die.

The message of our soldier poets who have been created by this war
and have written immortal verse, and many of whom have died, is the
message of men who have seen through the veils of time into eternity,
who are free of life and death, whom nothing can hurt, "if it be not
the Destined Will."

The veils of time grow thin in these days to those of us who take
Death into our reckoning all the time. We think of our men gone on
ahead as eternally young.

"Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines before our tears.