And always we shall walk with the young dead.—
Ah, how I pity the young dead, whose eyes
Strain through the sod to see these perfect skies,
Who feel the new wheat springing in their stead,
And the lark singing for them overhead!
THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER
BY ANGELO PATRI
Under the flag-draped casket lies an Unknown Soldier.
A nation pays him honor.
He lies with the great dead, a medal of honor upon his breast.
Guns fire salutes, stern generals, grave governors, care-burdened leaders join in paying him homage.
An unknown soldier. Nameless. Just one of the soldiers who wore his country's uniform and died in her service.
For him the flag hangs at half mast.
For him the solemn strains of the funeral march.
For him the uncovered heads and the orations.
For him the reverence and the tears of a great people.
An unknown soldier. No, no, no!
You knew and loved him. He played with
