For every man of us that falls
Their hordes a score shall lack.
Close in about the Lily Flag!
No man of us goes back.
For us no morrow’s dawn shall break.
Our sons and wives shall learn
Some day from lips of flying scout
Why we might not return.
A dream of children’s laughter comes
Across the battle’s slack,
A vision of familiar streets,—
But we shall not go back.
Up roars the painted storm once more.
Long rest we soon shall earn.
Henceforth the city safe may sleep,
But we shall not return.
And when our last has fallen in blood
Between these waters black,
Their tribe shall no more lust for war,—
For we shall not turn back.
In vain for us the town shall wait,
The home-dear faces yearn,
The watchers in the steeple watch,
For we shall not return.
NEW YEAR’S EVE
(AFTER THE FRENCH OF FRÉCHETTE)
Ye night winds shaking the weighted boughs
Of snow-blanched hemlock and frosted fir,
While crackles sharply the thin crust under
The passing feet of the wayfarer;
Ye night cries pulsing in long-drawn waves
Where beats the bitter tide to its flood;
A tumult of pain, a rumour of sorrow,
Troubling the starred night’s tranquil mood;
Ye shudderings where, like a great beast bound,
The forest strains to its depths remote;
Be still and hark! From the high gray tower
The great bell sobs in its brazen throat.