I pray you when the drum rolls let your mood
Be worthy of our deaths and your delight.
1916.
THE AFTERMATH
I.—AT THE EBB
Alone upon the monotonous ocean's verge
I take my stand, and view with heavy eye
The grey wave rise. I hear its sullen surge,
Its bubbling rush and sudden downward sigh....
My friends are dead ... there fades from me the light
Of her warm face I loved; upon me stare
In the dull noon or deadest hour of night
The smiling lips and chill eyes of Despair.