TRUCE

SO still, so still they lie, That neither the dew nor the sun Can stir through the matted grasses The men who strove by the gun. So still, so still they lie. An imperturbable pride Crowns the day at its closing: Yea; they are satisfied. So still, so still they lie, Stained clay on the blood-stained sod, Sealing in placid covenant The truce of Man and God.