They stretch, now high, now low the little scars
Upon the rugged pelt of herb and stone;
Above them sparkle bells and buds and stars
Young spring hath from her emerald kirtle thrown.
Asphodel, crocus and anemone
With silver, azure, crimson once again
Ray all that earth, and from the murmuring sea
Come winds to flash the leaves on shore and plain
Where evermore our dead—our radiant dead shall reign.
Imperishable as the mountain height
That marks their place afar, their numbers shine,
Who, with the first-fruits of a joyful might,
To human liberty another shrine
Here sanctified; nor vainly have they sped
That made this desert dearer far than home,
And left one sanctuary more to tread
For England, whose memorial pathways roam
Beside her hero sons, beneath the field and foam.
IN the midnight, in the rain,
That drenches every sooty roof and licks each window-pane,
The bugles blow for the last rally
Once again.
Through the horror of the night,
Where glimmers yet northwestward one ghostly strip of white,
Squelching with heavy boots through the untrodden ploughlands,
The troops set out. Eyes right!