Friday, May 30, 2014

"Our Own" by Annie M. Toohey (1920)

Our Own.


Memory with tender fingers rifts again the mist of Time,

As resound the thrills of glory in triumphant chord and chime,

'Mid exultant tales of valor of our noble fallen dead,

'Round whose graves still loyal footsteps of old comrades love to tread.

Newer mounds rest on the hillsides, bearing names of later braves,

Newer shrines around to linger by the cypress and the waves;

Heroes of the trench and red plains, who in din of cruel fray

Fell beneath the flags they honored, aye, in lands far, far away.

Yet some flower may be scattered where they sank in silent sleep,

On hallowed soil or 'neath the silv'ry wavelets of the deep;

For the ashes of our heroes ne'er can linger long untraced,

Nor the memory of their glory in our true hearts be effaced.

In a homeland over yonder, where no battle scars are seen,

'Mid unbroken ranks where only blessed hands can ever glean,

Flowers of unfading laurels nigh unto a radiant throne,

Linger souls of bravest soldiers whom we bravely call our own.

Troy Times. May 29, 1920: 13 col 1.

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