In Flanders Fields and Other Poems #392320

The Anxious Dead

          O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear
           Above their heads the legions pressing on:
          (These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,
           And died not knowing how the day had gone.)

          O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see
           The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;
          Then let your mighty chorus witness be
           To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.

          Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call,
           That we have sworn, and will not turn aside,
          That we will onward till we win or fall,
           That we will keep the faith for which they died.

          Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,
           They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep;
          Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,
           And in content may turn them to their sleep.




The Warrior

          He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days,
           But with the night his little lamp-lit room
          Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze
           Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the boom
          Of Bluecher's guns; he shared Almeida's scars,
           And from the close-packed deck, about to die,
          Looked up and saw the "Birkenhead"'s tall spars
           Weave wavering lines across the Southern sky:

          Or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row,
           At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay;
            Charged with the fiercest in Busaco's strife,
          Brave dreams are his — the flick'ring lamp burns low —
           Yet couraged for the battles of the day
            He goes to stand full face to face with life.