Behind Us Lay The Homely Shore With Youthful Memories Aureoled; A Sky Of Dazzling Blue Before, We Sailed A Sea Of Molten Gold. To Our Old Haven We Return; By Smoky Hills As Grey As Mud We See The Sullen Sunset Burn Malignant On A Lake Of Blood. Yes, We Return: But Memory Roams A Foul, Bleak Age Of Pain That Yields The Smoke And Flame Of Ruined Homes, The Muck Of Cannon-Pitted Fields.