He will not come, the gallant flying boy,

Back to his field. Somewhere he wings his way

Where the Immortals keep; where Homer now

Has back his sight, David his little lad;

Where all those are we dully call the dead,

Who have gone greatly on some shining quest,

He takes his way. That which he quested for,

That larger freedom of a larger birth,

Captains him, flying into fields of dawn.

He has gone on where now the soldier-slain