When the thrice-honeyed scent blows over the clover
and the cherries are bobbing down low to the grass
Will you answer your love when she’s calling you over?
Will you summon your courage or let it all pass?

When the mists of the morning are swirling about her
and legions of butterflies dance on the breezes
will you go to her arms to complete your encounter?
Will your heart overcome the urge that she pleases?

Bluebells adorn her fair head in a crown.
Flour sacks make a grand queen of a gown.
A ring made of cork to place on her finger;
a promise of return if the war does not linger.

When the thrice-bloodied reek blows over the sod
and the corpses are staked on the fences as warning
Will you answer your love when she’s praying to God?
Will you summon your ghost and watch her in mourning?

When the mists of the churchyard are swirling about you
and flowers lay frozen and cracked on your headstone
will you stay in this world with nothing to do?
Will you drift off to sleep amidst soil and bone?