B. HIGGINS
GALLIPOLI: AN EPITAPH
The moan of centuries breaks around these shores,
Whispers of sultry ages, and of woes
Low-trumpeted against the arch of Heaven....
A land that bows beneath the crescent moon
And shrinks within its glinting gaze—is this
The mausoleum of our nation's dead?
Yea, for their glory gathers on this strand!