How Shall we Remember Them?
— a poem about the grist —
Sitting out in Sidar’s chair
Sullen, somber, sorrowful
Fair views which fell the fighter’s peaks
Fall all alone somewhere
Lost amidst the tender mists
Where forlorn fighters fell their faces
Concealing shames of flushing cheeks
Ever-dead and useless grists
We cannot sing for the forlorn
Though they need it so—
Sing instead by Sidar’s creek
Stand up beside the borne