by | Oct 25, 2012 | Poetry | 0 comments

Ungrown, the apple, when it falls
Beneath the stumbling walls
And far from autumn’s dear
And tender tree.

A comrade’s fallen deep
And orchards bow to weep
To harvest there a grief
Reserved for me.

Don’t weep my darling comrades
Alas my weary boot
Has fought upon
The battleground and grave.

And autumn’s tender seed
Is planted near the tree
Beneath the shaded leaf
Among the brave.


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