A. VICTOR RATCLIFFE
Lieut., 10/13th West Yorkshire Regiment
At Sundown
THE day put by his valiant shield,
And cast him down.
His broken sword lay o'er a field
Of barley brown
And his bright sceptre and his crown
Were sunken in the river's heart.
His native tent of blue and gold
Was gathered in.
I saw his torn flags o'er the wold;
And on the whin
High silence lit, and her near kin
Fair twilight spread her firefly wings.
The birds like secret thoughts lay still
Beneath the hush
That held the sky and the long hill
And every bush.
And floated o'er the river's rush
And held the windlets in her hand.
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