Poets

The starshells float above, the bayonets glisten; We bear our fallen friend without a sound; Below the waiting legions lie and listen To us, who march upon their burial-ground.

Here lies a clerk who half his life had spent Toiling at ledgers in a city grey, Thinking that so his days would drift away With no lance broken in life’s tournament:

In this red havoc of the patient earth, Though higher yet the tide of battle rise, Now has the hero cast away disguise, And out of ruin splendour comes to birth