More Songs by the Fighting Men
And left me breathing still the air of men
On this sweet earth. Yet in my daily creed
Shall be deep thanks to War that touched my eyes
With sight to see in you my priceless prize.
Return is sweet to one who hath been far
On pilgrimage or war's stern business, and
Hath oft at evening watched the evening star
Beckon to him beyond the desert sand,
Whispering of those green lands of memory's home,
Fertile with bliss that was and is to be,
Until, no more inconstantly to roam
With a sweet pain at heart then voweth he.
But doubly happy in my happiness
Am I who to anticipate made glad
Drear days of trial, and find each cheerful guess
So true, I gained such glad days from such sad:
You are my home, and I find home confirm
The hopes most glad of my sad exile-term.
And yet if I unto my verse would wed
Fair Truth, who stands with grave unfaltering gaze,
Reading where late my labouring pen hath sped
In halting periods o'er my checkered days,
Let me not write so of the present joy
Of my home-coming that one could infer
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