He only hears
The haunting cadence of his leader's words
That touch the chords
Of memory: Perdita's daffodils;
Juliet's lark that she so fain would dress
In notes of nightingale; the wistfulness
Of Devon hills;
The sob of misty seas; the fringe of foam
Caressing all the contours of a bay;
The soft green radiance at the close of day;
The lights of home—
Strange children of the murky Flanders dawn!
A motor horn
Rends the frail gossamer of reverie:
The platoon stiffens, his voice calls a halt,
The car purrs motionless: "Any assault?"
"None!" the reply;
The car glides on, the tramp of the platoon
Beats out again beneath the morning moon.
He looked down on his dead: the sacrifice
Of gallant hearts stricken before the shrine
Of England and of home; saw the red wine,
Wine beyond price,
The blood of England's sons so freely given;
Counted his living comrades, nine in all—
Twenty had answered death's high bugle-call—
And three shot-riven;
Swore he would hold the rampart until day—
The sun had set on their resplendent hour—
Read grim resolve, determination dour,
Lust for the fray
In every eye, in every countenance.
The radiance
Of a clear moonlit summer sky came down
To bless their fortitude, and all night long
The mantle lay upon the sleeping throng;
Clenched fist and frown,
Arrested gesture—every lineament
