The Earth Turns South/Harvest

by Clement Richardson Wood

HARVEST

Out of the blood-washed trenches,Leaving their bodies there,The souls of the dead young soldiersFloat up the friendless air.

They do not seek the mastersWho herded them to this fate,With hearts all hot for vengeance,—They are too dead to hate.

But each one finds the maidenHe trembled for in life—She who was yet his sweetheart,She who was his young wife.

And she feels on her hungry bosomThe ghost of a dead caress,As the soul of her lover scattersInto gray nothingness.