In Flanders Fields and Other Poems by John McCrae
page 11 of 121 (09%)
page 11 of 121 (09%)
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(It's far to Brecon Town!)
It's me that keeps it trim and drest With a briar there and a rose by his breast -- The English flowers he likes the best That I bring from Brecon Town. And I sit beside him -- him and me, (We're back to Brecon Town.) To talk of the things that used to be (Grey ghosts of Brecon Town); I know the look o' the land and sky, And the bird that builds in the tree near by, And times I hear the jackals cry, And me in Brecon Town. Golden grey on miles of sand The dawn comes creeping down; It's day in far off Zululand And night in Brecon Town. The Unconquered Dead ". . . defeated, with great loss." Not we the conquered! Not to us the blame |
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