Our Cenotaphs stand guard at night,
Keeping watch with those that died:
With men of war and courage true--
But with boys afraid and maidens too.

Remember, lad, these names now dry:
They bled and breathed as you and I;
As you and I, their vices had--
But were country slain, my lad.
      Remember that.

Battered bruised I run away
From bickering and spite;
At the doorstep to my broken home
I leave my former life.

I wander now the world alone--
My past is dead to me.
I wander now the world alone--
But the dead can never leave.

Autumn loves some leaves to gold
And some to red or brown of old,
For she must count all leaves as lost
Once laid low in hoary frost.

So until by Winter's icy breath
All is made as cold as death,
Autumn loves some leaves to gold
And some to red or brown of old.