Once in a Belgian garden，（Ah，many months ago！）I saw，like pale Madonnas，The tall，white lilies blow.
Great poplars swayed and trembled Afar against the sky，And green with flags and rushes，The river wandered by.
Amid the waving wheatfields Glowed poppies blazing red，And showering strange wild music A lark rose overhead.
The wheat is trodden low，And in the bloodstained gardenNo more the lilies blow.
And where green poplars trembled Stand shattered trunks instead，And lines of small white crosses Keep guard above the dead.
For here brave lads and noble，From lands beyond the deep，Beneath the small white crosses Have laid them down to sleep.
They laid them down with gladness Upon the alien plain，That this same Belgian garden Might bud and bloom again.
