In Memory of George Rock
Apollo’s empty shrine;
Then passed to where the young abound,
Dead at the battle line.
But you, still vanquished by the loss
Of those you reached too late,
Stood, pensive on the Syrian moss,
With Greece to contemplate.
Where had they gone, the soldiers whom
Your ambulance had brought
Not back to life but to the room
Of death after they fought?
And those who died at Marathon,
They had not been more brave;
Yet all together, they were done
With, deep in a dark grave.
How many thoughts perplexed you here,
Alone in an absent place,
The ghostly soldiers, were they near?
Did they see your face?
Alas for us, who still must find
These temples filled with shadows, they
Can see you now in ghostly kind,
Who were most kind to me.
Ah, George, no marbles are enough,
Not those of Greece or Rome,
To raise a trophy to kind love,
Which finally led you home.
So only lines like those you scanned
In our embattled youth;
My leaves of laurel in your hand,
Weave for a victory wreath.