Invasion.

Must this war be?
And must we die so soon?
Must I go from you, leaving you
alone? …
Soon spring will bloom, but not for
you or me—
We will not see the sunlight at high
noon
Lighting the straight and gallant daffodils,
Nor stand together on the windy
hills… .
When we are gone, the sun will shine
the same
Joyous and gay: still will the moon
be cold.
But done for us is youth's sweet
thoughtless game,
Nor shall we know the peace of growing old.

—Stuart McCrae.

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