THERE, ON THE HILL
I will go up that grass- green hill again,
To where young William sleeps the warrior's
sleep---
So young to lodge in that bleak, coal-strewn
ground,
On that lone rise so old his youth to keep.
He went to Vietnam, no slacker he;
No shrewd objector with a conscience new;
No headlong refugee from fatherland,
He gave his life among the brave so few.
In that far land, a night-time sniper's fire
Cut down young William at his sentry post.
His wound had healed, and he was back again,
Undaunted by the grim guerrilla host.
Not far from here they sing his Requiem,
Sang "Angels Meet Thee Now In Paradise!"
The rifles' fusillade, the bugle's "taps,"
And then the grassy shroud, the tears
in eyes.
Along the road, the soon-dead throng goes by.
The moon of the harvest shining, shining bright
Caresses this young warrior's simple stone."
~ Everett Francis Briggs
