After The Battles
The dead are beneath the sod,
by Ina D. Coolbrith
And the flowers above them blooming;
The birds are singing again,
And the bees in the clover humming.
The skies are glory above
In the dawn, and the sunset flushes.
And the wind a lullaby croon
Of a mother, her babe that hushes.
For Earth is a patient Earth,
And pardon is quick to win her-
But the heart of her child, of Man,
Is a quenchless flame within her.