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 soldiers
Float up the friendless air.

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

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

And she feels on her hungry bosom
The ghost of a dead caress,
As the soul of her lover scatters
Into gray nothingness.