We swept the field, we won the day.
Entrenched upon the plain I slept;
Morn came and with it shadows gray,
And something in my heart that wept.
And if to think be not a crime
For those who fight the fight of Kings,
Upon that plain at dawning time
I thought of sweeter, gentler things;
Of home and vales of waving green
And one who waited babe on knee;
And all the cherished joys between
The trenches and my love and me;
Of all the loving hearts that yearn
Through cheerless nights and pensive days;
And all the tender eyes that burn
With dreams, the hand of war waylays;
Of those who feel the armed might,
And bear its scars their breasts within,
The meek with faces strangely white
As her who'd wait in vain for him.
In what old garden would she wait,
His golden girl with eyes of brown;
By what old fashioned trellised gate
In some old street in some old town.
No more to know the touch of hands,
Nor tender light of his wide eyes,
With all her maiden heart had planned,
A vanished dream of Paradise.
For I, on her, the thorny crown
With hands ungentle deep had pressed,
Her heart's fair garden trampled down,
And crushed its roses in her breast.
I did not hate the man I killed,
But Duty hath her stern commands;
I might have spared him had I willed,
But one on high He understands.
The morning broke, and then a lark
High in the heavens poured his lay;
I turned from phantoms of the dark
To Duty and grim war's array.