When leaves of Autumn change their hue,
Then later they but fall away
That other leaves may follow through.
But Autumn leaves and blood are red,
They both preclude an end,
Each year the leaves of Autumn shed
Upon the likeness of my friend.
Contempt is something felt by few,
Hatred, felt by many,
But when I lost a friend like you
I did not feel for any.
Any that had done you harm,
Or them that did you good;
Life for me had lost its charm
The hopes for which we stood.
How red the setting sun does seem
Upon the waters of the Rhine?
How many other men will dream
The same dream that was mine!
I still do sleepless lie,
Thinking how it first begun
For the likes of you and I.
The bugle's cry is faintly heard
Above the graveyard knell,
But not a single soul has stirred
They hear naught but the bell.
In fields of deepest green they lay,
With nothing more to gain, or lose,
Those that came, came to stay
In a land they did not choose
Over the bridge of seven ways,
Where seven rivers flow,
There lies a field of many days
That men have ceased to know,
Where little crosses mark the graves,
While Time moves to-and-fro.
excerpt from W.S. Vernon, The story of Arnhem
