Page:In Flanders Fields and Other Poems.djvu/29

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The Unconquered Dead

". . . defeated, with great loss."

Not we the conquered!  Not to us the blame
   Of them that flee, of them that basely yield;
Nor ours the shout of victory, the fame
   Of them that vanquish in a stricken field.

That day of battle in the dusty heat
  We lay and heard the bullets swish and sing
Like scythes amid the over-ripened wheat,
  And we the harvest of their garnering.

Some yielded, No, not we!  Not we, we swear
  By these our wounds; this trench upon the hill
Where all the shell-strewn earth is seamed and bare,
  Was ours to keep; and lo! we have it still.

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