| George Herbert Clarke, ed. (1873–1953). A Treasury of War Poetry. 1917. |
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| 139. Resurrection |
| | | By Hermann Hagedorn |
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| NOT long did we lie on the torn, red field of pain. | |
| We fell, we lay, we slumbered, we took rest, | |
| With the wild nerves quiet at last, and the vexed brain | |
| Cleared of the wingèd nightmares, and the breast | |
| Freed of the heavy dreams of hearts afar. | 5 |
| We rose at last under the morning star. | |
| We rose, and greeted our brothers, and welcomed our foes. | |
| We rose; like the wheat when the wind is over, we rose. | |
| With shouts we rose, with gasps and incredulous cries, | |
| With bursts of singing, and silence, and awestruck eyes, | 10 |
| With broken laughter, half tears, we rose from the sod, | |
| With welling tears and with glad lips, whispering, “God.” | |
| Like babes, refreshed from sleep, like children, we rose, | |
| Brimming with deep content, from our dreamless repose. | |
| And, “What do you call it?” asked one. “I thought I was dead.” | 15 |
| “You are,” cried another. “We’re all of us dead and flat.” | |
| “I’m alive as a cricket. There’s something wrong with your head.” | |
| They stretched their limbs and argued it out where they sat. | |
| And over the wide field friend and foe | |
| Spoke of small things, remembering not old woe | 20 |
| Of war and hunger, hatred and fierce words. | |
| They sat and listened to the brooks and birds, | |
| And watched the starlight perish in pale flame, | |
| Wondering what God would look like when He came. | |
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