They do not see the cherry, its petalled beauty shed, They do not hear the skylark singing overhead.
They do not see the bluebells along an April lane. They do not feel the touch of gentle summer rain.
They do not hear the muffled drum, nor the cleric’s prayer. They do not feel the silence, unbroken, still the air.
They do not hear the chiming clock, or the cannon boom, They do not see the poppies, nor hear the bugler’s tune.
They do not see the tears, misting loved one’s eyes.
They do not see the nation mourn, beneath grey English skies. They do not see old comrades, remembering with pride,
They will not see tomorrow, for which they gave and died.
They do not seek our pity as peacefully they sleep
They simply ask that we, with them, a lasting faith will keep. Remembering the sacrifice, which they so freely made,
And the dreadful price of war, that for us they paid.