I Stand With My Shoulder To Shoulders Poem by Alexander Anderson

I stand with my shoulder to shoulders,
In the long, sad battle of life;
I keep in the ranks of my fellows,
I add my voice to the strife.


The fight is a stumbling onward,
Where each must stand to his part;
Though he feels the warm blood trickling
From an unseen wound in his heart.


At times when the marching is over,
And the tents are pitched for the night,
I can hear the poets singing
Somewhere from an unseen height.


They sing of love and gladness,
Of the golden primal plan,
Of the forging of bosom to bosom,
And the brotherhood of man.


But I who am weary and footsore,
And faint from the wounds that bleed,
I turn away from their singing,
I am out of touch with their creed.


But still I can hear their music,
Like the rise and fall of the wind,
And it wakens the dim, far voices
Of the years that are left behind.


Then I whisper—'O, ye poets
That stand on the hills of life,
Your eyes are upon the battle,
But ye stand apart from the strife.


'Ye know not the deep, fierce anger
Of the columns that rally and wheel;
Ye are out of the reach of the bullet,
And beyond the sweep of the steel.


'But I who lay claim to no laurel,
I bow to the will of the Fates,
Take my place in the ranks of my fellows
And accept their loves and their hates.'