We are the stricken—those who died But did not fall. Once, side by side, We burned and bled— We are the countless standing dead.
We look upon some mighty fir, Remembering ourselves that were; It was a lightning flash that came, And flame Encircled us. All night The sky was crimson with our light. Day dawned upon the hills—the sun rose red, It saw the dying and the dead, The vast, uncounted dead—and over all, A smoky pall That wavered in the wind. We did not fall— We did not fall, like some—magnificent in strength Who measured out their length, Still smouldering, upon the ash-heaped mat Of earth—we were not burned enough for that.
Years passed Our dried bark cracked—at last It flaked and fell. In high distress We were—gaunt in our nakedness. So have we stood— The gray ghost-brotherhood, We who have burned and bled But did not fall—the standing dead.