Sometimes in the night watch,
Half seen in the gloaming,
Come visions advancing, advancing, retreating
All into the darkness.
And the harps responded in deep minor chords:
All into the darkness.
We dream that we clasp them,
The forms of our dear ones.
When, lo, as we touch them,
They leave us and vanish
On wings that beat lightly
The still paths of slumber.
Very softly the harps:
The still paths of slumber.
They left in high valour
The land of their boyhood,
And sorrowful patience
Awaits their returning
While love holds expectant
Their homes in our bosoms.
Sweetly the harps:
Their homes in our bosoms.
In high hope they left us
In sorrow with weeping
Their loved ones await them.
For lo, to their greeting
Instead of our heroes
Come only their phantoms.
The harps deep and low:
Come only their phantoms.
We weep as we reckon
The deeds of their glory—
Of this one the wisdom,
Of that one the valour:
And they in their beauty
Sleep sound in their death shrouds.
The harps dismally: