And all of this the dead have lost:
The sound of leaves
The touch of frost
The taste of mothers bedtime broth
And all of this the dead have lost.
The sight of her: the sound, the touch
A smile exchanged twixt lovers, often
Stealing kisses below the wreath
Wet grass at our backs, bright stars beneath
Her delight at market trinkets bought
Yea all of this, we shared and sought
Yet none of it now means a whit
The wise have judged; our lives remit
So all those things we had, and sought
My wife, our child, the joy she brought
The very things for which we fought
Yea, all of this, we dead have lost.
127th Manchester Brigade
Published