The Spike: or, Victoria University College Review, June 1922
25-4-22
25-4-22.
I.
Rain, and a wind in the night, and tossing trees,
And a voice that cries in the night, Ah! who are these?
As the ranks of the dead march past in the troubled night
With their wounds and their burning eyes, and a sombre light.
Noiseless the march of their many, many feet,
Pale and most pitifully pale their faces, strained,
Staring ahead with a look no man can meet,
Set hard and bloodless, yet with blood-marks stained.
I turn from the sight of those numberless marching men
And hide in my mind from their pitiful eyes; but then,
Still then and forever the dreadfully marching hosts
Move on through my thoughts, mute, terribly patient ghosts.
II.
Those dead battalions never cease
Their silent march, nor any peace
Have I from seeing their staring eyes
That burn all through the restless skies
* * * *
This sorrowful and splendid day
I will arise and go my way,
With humbleness of heart and head,
Thinking on those many dead.
J. C. B.