The soul of the world they will feel and see in the chase and the grim retreat,
They'll know the glory of victory—and the grandeur of defeat."
This was but a beginning. Other men rose and declaimed verses that told of life in the homeland. One poem after another was recited. "The Old Whim Horse," "Out Back," "Sheedy Was Dying," poems dealing with the swagman, shearer and sundowner and telling of the Paroo parched with long drouths or blooming with the wattle blossoms. For the moment all the company were back there, and the patronne, with bottles red and blue gleaming on the shelves over her head, viewed the big boys with eyes that from time to time were moist with tears.
For did she not know them, those who were now for a moment under the roof of her café, who would leave to-morrow night, go up to the trenches, and come back again in a week or a fortnight. But not all. In that was the tragedy: some would come back again. But not all. Some would remain up there resting for ever near the lip of the trench. She knew of the grim tragedy of the trenches and felt for the boys. Her own husband dead and buried at Verdun! But it was war.
And at that moment the tall, dark man by the stove rose, squared his shoulders, gave a preliminary cough and started a poem.
"East and backward pale faces turning—
That's how the dead men lie,
Gaunt arms stretched with a voiceless yearning—
That's how the dead men lie.
Oft in the fragrant hush of nooning,