There’s a lonely stretch of hillocks:
There’s a beach asleep and drear:
There’s a battered broken fort beside the sea.
There are sunken trampled graves:
The guns were silent, and the silent hills
had bowed their grasses to a gentle breeze
I gazed upon the vales and on the rills,
And whispered, "What of these?' and "What of these?
We always had to do our work at night.
I wondered why we had to be so sly.
I wondered why we couldn't have our fight
Under the open sky.
The island sleeps,-but it has no delight
For em, to whom that sleep has been unkind.
My thoughts are long of what seems long ago,
‘At every cost,’ they said, ‘it must be done.’
They told us in the early afternoon.
We sit and wait the coming of the sun
"That just reminds me of a yarn," he said;
And look for the body of Lofty Lane
I lie by the garden wall,
Buried and all alone;
The brown camellias fall
One by one on the stone.
Be still. The bleeding night is in suspense
Of watchful agony and coloured thought,
And every beating vein and trembling sense,