The 

 Human 

 Harvest 



The brightest are gone before usy 

 The dullest are left behind. 



The living are brave and noble^ 

 The dead were bravest of all! 



The kindly seasons love us, 



They smile over trench and clod; 



Where we left the bravest of us 



There's a deeper green of the sod. 



Once more Kipling : 



The Song 

 of the 

 Dead 



Hear now the Song of the Dead in the North 



by the torn berg-edges: 

 They that look still to the pole asleep by their 



hide-stripped sledges. 



Song of the Dead in the South, in the sun by 



their skeleton horses. 

 When the warrigal whimpers and bays through 



the dust of the sere river-courses. 



[92] 



Song of the Dead in the East, in the heat- 

 rotted jungle hollows. 



When the dog-ape barks in the kloof, in the 

 brake of the buffalo-wallows. 



