For all my days—not those of peace alone—the days of war the same.
For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands,
For shelter, wine, and meat—for sweet appreciation.
(You distant, dim unknown—or young, or old—countless, unspecified, beloved.
We never met, and ne’er shall meet—and yet our souls embrace, long, close, and long;)
For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books,—for colours, forms,
For all the brave, strong men—devoted, hardy men—who’ve forward sprang in freedom’s help, all years, all lands,
For braver, stronger, more devoted men (a special laurel ere I go to life’s war’s chosen ones.
The cannoneers of song and thought—the neat artillerymen—the foremost leaders, captains of the soul;)
As soldier from an ended war return’d—as traveller out of myriads, to the long procession retrospective.