From graves to bushes
From bushes to trees
And back to the stone-spangled ground
And as they rise,
And as they descend
I hear a whisper
That not one of these falls
Apart from the will of Our Father
Not the eighteen-year private
Whose Army Division is given
Not the old woman
Who outlived her husband by thirty years
Not even the baby
Whose headstone lists her age
As "One year, three months, seven days"
And it's hard for me to fathom
Why some died old
And some did not
But as a sparrow flutters past,
I choose once more to trust
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