How quiet is this sombre room.
No roses leave their sweet perfume
Where spiders weave their octave loom
And errant sunbeams pierce the gloom.

The coat, the shoes, the favourite chair
The brush still tangled with his hair
The quilt mildewed , the rug threadbare
Nothing touched since he left them there.

Slumbered there our dear boy's head.
"I hear the call to arms" he said.
Now he sleeps in a different bed
His battle jacket stained with red.