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THE LAND OF DUMB DESPAIR
The bows beside their hands are strung;
The blue steel glitters, bare of sheath:
'Tis wonder tired Life drags among
So many ways to Death!
They may not whisper, one to one,
The stories of their fancied fall:
The words that ring beneath the sun
Would faint in such a pall.
In silence, man by man, they reach
For cup, for arrow, or for sword,
And still the grey world fills the breach
Each leaves beside the board.
W. H. OGILVIE.
