But high o’er the great Arch-angels,
Higher than any stand,
I saw the chosen of the King
At the right of the Master’s hand.
And I questioning gazed in the deep-lit eyes
And the silent face aglow,
Till the Guiding One It answered me
The word that I wished to know—
“Out of the crash of battle,
Where the shrieking bullet sings,
The roaring front lines reel and rock
As a wounded vulture swings.
“As a wounded vulture halting swings
The quivering squadrons break,
Till the shattered herds catch up the words,
‘Back, back for your Country’s sake!’”
(Back, back to follow after
The light of fearless eyes,
And the sound of a voice that knows no choice
Where the love of a Nation lies.)
And the Guiding One it paused apace,
And then I heard it say—
“And he?—He died in leading
The charge that won the day.”
THE FAIREST MOON
Oh ye who tell of the harvest moon
Above the waving grain,
Oh ye who tell of the silent moon
That glitters across the plain.
Oh ye who tell of the mountain moon
That lifts each peak and crag,
Oh ye who tell of the ocean moon
Where the long, black shadows drag.
Oh ye who tell of the silver moon
In wanton ecstasy,
Ye never tell of the fairest moon—
The fairest moon to me.