Ardour and faith of those keen brown faces!
Challenge and strength of those big brown hands!
Eyes that have flashed upon wide-flung spaces!
Chins that have conquered in fierce far lands!—
Flood could not daunt them, Drought could not break them;
Deep in their hearts is their sun's own fire;
Blood of thine own blood, England, take them!
These are the swords of thy soul's desire!
SAMOTHRACE and Imbros lie
Like blue shadows in the sky;
Scented comes the wind from Greece
Slow winged as the Soul of Peace.
All was still as evening came
With a whisper, sheathed in flame,
And the battlefield grew still
From the Valley to the Hill.
Just beyond the ripples' reach
He was lying on the beach,
Dreaming half of things at home,
Mixing dreams with light and foam.
Three days he had smelt the dead,
Looked on black blood and on red,
Gripped and lain, and cursed and hated,
Feared, exulted, prayed, and waited.
From the dawn till dusk was dim
All the world had spied on him;
And the wind that sighed so low
Seemed the footstep of his foe,