And he who would cross the space between must meet death face to face.
The black mouths belch and thunder, and the shrapnel shrieks and flies;
Where are the fain and the fearless, the lads with the dauntless eyes?
Will the moment find them wanting! Nay, but with valor stirred!
Like the leashed hound on the coursing-ground they wait but the warning word.
“Charge!” and the line moves forward, moves with a shout and a swing,
While sharper far than the cactus-thorn is the spiteful bullet’s sting.
Now they are out in the open, and now they are breasting the slope,
While into the eyes of death they gaze as into the eyes of hope.
Never they wait nor waver, but on they clamber and on,