Autumn trudged in veiled greys

Through golden reds it lurched,

On pavements stained by wasted days

Toward the Poppied Church.

 

On through fields bereft of crop

Across the muddied plain,

Where steepled bells ne’er seem to stop

That ring each fallen name.

 

Of Summers Joy it cannot speak

Those memories filled with pain,

Where once young eyes did clearly seek

Great days that never came.

 

Yet, there is a song that rarely yields

Its harmony is hope,

It knows of only Greener fields

Beyond this earthly cloak.

 

So, in that quiet reverence

When you fear you stand alone,

Take strength in the forbearance

Of all who’ve gone you’ve known.