A Celebration of Women Writers

"Our Dead." by Norah M. Holland (1876-1925)
From: Spun-Yarn And Spindrift. by Norah M. Holland. London & Toronto: J. M. Dent & Sons; New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., 1918, p. 89.

Editor: Mary Mark Ockerbloom

[Page 89] 


NOT where the English turf grows green we laid them,
  Where their forefathers lie;
O'er the rude trench and rough-built mound we made them
  Arches an alien sky.

No chime of bells from old-time towers above them;
  No sound of English streams,
Calling of rooks, or voice of those who love them,
  Ever shall break their dreams.

What matters it ? The earth that o'er them closes
  Its flowers as softly sheds
As English winds could bring the English roses
  To rain upon their heads.

And though an alien land their dust is keeping,
  Still in their hearts with pride
They say: "Though England may not guard our sleeping,
  Yet 'tis for her we died."

And with each wind across the waves that sever
  Them from the land they knew,
Shall blow this message through their hearts forever:
  "England remembers too."

[Page 90]

Editor: Mary Mark Ockerbloom