| George Herbert Clarke, ed. (1873–1953). A Treasury of War Poetry. 1917. |
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| 99. “—But a Short Time to Live” |
| | | By Leslie Coulson |
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| OUR little hour,—how swift it flies | |
| When poppies flare and lilies smile; | |
| How soon the fleeting minute dies, | |
| Leaving us but a little while | |
| To dream our dream, to sing our song, | 5 |
| To pick the fruit, to pluck the flower, | |
| The Gods—They do not give us long,— | |
| One little hour. | |
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| Our little hour,—how short it is | |
| When Love with dew-eyed loveliness | 10 |
| Raises her lips for ours to kiss | |
| And dies within our first caress. | |
| Youth flickers out like wind-blown flame, | |
| Sweets of to-day to-morrow sour, | |
| For Time and Death, relentless, claim | 15 |
| Our little hour. | |
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| Our little hour,—how short a time | |
| To wage our wars, to fan our hates, | |
| To take our fill of armoured crime, | |
| To troop our banners, storm the gates. | 20 |
| Blood on the sword, our eyes blood-red, | |
| Blind in our puny reign of power, | |
| Do we forget how soon is sped | |
| Our little hour? | |
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| Our little hour,—how soon it dies: | 25 |
| How short a time to tell our beads, | |
| To chant our feeble Litanies, | |
| To think sweet thoughts, to do good deeds. | |
| The altar lights grow pale and dim, | |
| The bells hang silent in the tower— | 30 |
| So passes with the dying hymn | |
| Our little hour. | |
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