When you see millions of the mouthless dead Across your dreams in pale battalions go Say not soft things as other men have said That you'll remember or you need not so Give them not praise for, deaf, how should they know It is not curses heaped on each gashed head? Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow Nor honour. It is easy to be dead Say only this: They are dead, then add thereto Yet many a better one has died before Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you Perceive one face that you loved heretofore It is a spook. None wears the face you knew Great death has made all his for evermore Such, such is Death: No triumph: No defeat Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean A merciful putting away of what has been A merciful putting away of what has been Of what has been