H. S. R.
(Died of wounds, April, 1917)
You are dead—
You, the kindly, courteous,
You whom we loved,
You who harmed no man
Yet were brave to death
And died that other men might live.
Far purer, braver lips than mine should praise you,
Far nobler hands than mine record your loss,
Yet since your courteous high valour scorned no man,
I, who but loved you from the depths, can greet you,
Salute your grave and murmur, "Brother,
Hail and farewell! You are dead."
[52]
