To

K. S. S.

That men in armour may be born

With serpents' teeth the field is sown;

Rains mould, winds bend, suns gild the corn

Too quickly ripe, too early mown.

I scan the quivering heads, behold

The features, catch the whispered breath

Of friends long garnered in the cold

Unopening granaries of death,

Whose names in solemn cadence ring

Across my slow oblivious page.

Their friendship was a finer thing

Than fame, or wealth, or honoured age,

And—while you live and I—shall last

Its tale of seasons with us yet

Who cherish, in the undying past,

The men we never can forget.

Bad Kissingen, C. K. S. M.

July 31, 1923.