Memories of "Over There"

Sometimes when I am dreaming, My thoughts drift to and fro; O'er the distant fields of Flanders Where the crimson poppies blow.

Again I trudge the highways In the dusk of eventide; 'Neath a sky of rose and purple, With my dream pals by my side.

The boys are softly singing, As they trudge the trail with me : "Oh, the old gray mare, she Ain't what she used to be!"

I see the storm clouds gather, The last dim shadows go; And the faces, oh, the faces, In the star-shell's afterglow.

And my soul is sorely shaken And I long for sweet relief; From the spectre scenes of sorrow And the sounds of death and grief.

For these dreams recall my comrades Whose hearts in death are stilled; And the trenches, oh, the trenches, With their human harvest fill'd.

While the world, unheeding, thoughtless, Wonders at the waywardness Of the boys who wore the khaki, And their discontented restlessness.